


(Into My Lover) He Grew

by amadrabbles



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Child Abuse, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Drug Withdrawal, Drug-Induced Sex, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Forced Prostitution, Incest, M/M, Minor Character Death, Multi, Obsession, Physical Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prostitution, Recreational Drug Use, Relapsing, Sibling Incest, Suicidal Thoughts, Underage Prostitution
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-29
Updated: 2018-02-07
Packaged: 2018-07-18 23:43:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 9
Words: 46,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7335784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amadrabbles/pseuds/amadrabbles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lucifer is a drug addicted whore, and certainly no one Michael should ever hope to be caught associating with. He is filled with vice and sin, the devil himself, someone he had to cut out of his life years ago. Lucifer is not Michael's brother, not anymore.</p>
<p>...But he's just a child, and Michael can't abandon him again.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>This is a very dark fic with heavy and disturbing themes. Started as a RP, two different times, both ended up never going on very far, so I've decided to take this story into my hands and finally write it out myself. Please read the tags to know exactly what it is you're getting into. I repeat: this is a very dark fic. Please proceed with caution.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Goodbye (Brother)

Michael was a good son, and he had three younger brothers he loved very much. He was the eldest at seventeen—a junior in high school—and as such, much was expected of him. He had to be an example, he had to show his younger brothers how to be good, how to be perfect.

He was a straight-A student, an AP student, a teacher’s pet, and on the student council; but he was still sociable and popular. He was the star quarterback on the high school football team, and he had a beautiful girlfriend whose family was well to do and was raising a respectable young lady. (The pair was even nominated for Prom King and Queen.) He went to church every Sunday, and was the leader of his church’s youth group. His father couldn’t be any more proud.

But Michael wasn’t just a son. He was a second father to his siblings out of duty, not necessarily out of want. Their father was unfortunately widowed, and it was very difficult raising four boys when your heart was broken and you were recovering from losing the love of your life and fighting alcoholism.

Michael was a good son, and he was his father’s perfect little soldier. Whatever his father told him to do, he obeyed. _I’m going out of town; will you take Gabriel to his trumpet lesson, Michael?_ Yes, sir. _Help Raphael with his biology homework, he’s been struggling._ Yes, sir. _Watch out for my boy, Lucifer…I don’t like the people he’s been hanging out with._ Yes, sir.

Michael tried his hardest to be an example, he really did. Despite his busy schedule, he made sure he was involved in his younger brothers’ lives. He loved them very much, and he wanted nothing more than for them to succeed. Gabriel was the youngest at seven years old, full of life and spunk and he (quite frankly) was terrible at playing his trumpet just yet, but Michael encouraged him and went to all of his recitals anyways. Raphael, eleven, was quiet and reserved and very intelligent, keeping mostly to himself but always willing to lend a helping hand whenever Michael’s plate got too full. He always appreciated that about Raphael.

And then, there was Lucifer. Michael loved Lucifer very much, and though he’d never admit it, the thirteen-year old was his favorite sibling. He was his first little brother, and they stuck to each other like glue. It was for that very reason that his heart ached when the blond started drifting away from him.

Lucifer, like his younger brothers, was intelligent and charming. He had the voice of an angel, and Michael loved going to his choir concerts. That was, until Lucifer inexplicably dropped out of the class during the second semester of his freshman year. When Michael questioned him, Lucifer simply shrugged and said, “It takes up too much of my free time. I want to hang out with my friends.”

His friends. Their father didn’t like the people Lucifer was hanging out with, and Michael frowned when he heard that. “Luce, I don’t like those people,” he said, because if their father didn’t like them, he didn’t either. But his younger brother only huffed and clenched his fists.

“I don’t care!”

Michael had to reprimand Lucifer. His brother knew better than to be disrespectful. “Go to your room,” he said, and Lucifer glared and flipped him off before storming to his room. Michael was hurt. This wasn’t like Lucifer, it wasn’t. It _had_ to be his friends; they were a bad influence. He had to tell their father.

A few hours later, Michael knocked on Lucifer’s bedroom door. As angry as he was with his brother, he still loved him, and he wouldn’t let him starve. (He also knew Lucifer was going to be moody, so he had a peace offering.)

“Luce, dinner’s ready. I made your favorite, spaghetti and meatballs. Come join Gabe and Raph and I, please.”

He waited for a second, but when he heard no answer, he knocked again. “Luce?”

Again, nothing. “I’m coming in,” Michael said, but when he opened the door, Lucifer wasn’t there, and the window was opened.

He felt a deep hurt and anger boiling within him. Lucifer knew better, he had been raising him better! Michael stormed over to the window and slammed it shut, locked it. He went into every other room in the house that had a window, and locked all of those too, before he returned to kitchen to let Raphael and Gabriel know that their older brother would not be joining them for dinner, and that they were not, under any circumstances, to unlock any of the windows in the house.

Michael was a good son, and he called their father to let him know what had happened, while his younger siblings cleared the dining table after they finished eating.

Michael did not go to bed after he tucked Gabriel and Raphael in for the night. He didn’t go to bed at his normal time; instead, he waited up until it was almost 1:30am in the dark living room, lights all shut off. He heard the distinct turn of a doorknob, and he looked toward the front door as he saw a familiar silhouette slinking silently into the quiet house, sneaking. Michael turned on the light. “You are in big trouble, young man,” he said, voice low so he wouldn’t wake the kids.

Lucifer looked like a deer in headlights, suddenly afraid, and Michael hated that look—he wanted to forget everything and wrap his brother in his arms and say, “It’s okay, you’re okay. You made a mistake,” but he couldn’t.

“Where have you been? I’ve been worried sick.”

He didn’t answer, and instead looked shamefully at the ground.

“You were with those friends of yours, weren’t you?”

He didn’t answer.

“Lucifer—damn it! They’re a bad influence on you! You’re grounded.”

“Oh, fuck off!” Lucifer finally said.

Michael was appalled—Lucifer knew better. He knew better than to be so disrespectful. “Excuse me?” He grabbed Lucifer’s arms and forced the blond to look up at him. “What has gotten into you?!”

And that’s when he smelled it—the reeking stench of pot clinging to his thirteen-year old brother’s clothes. That’s when he saw his beautiful blue eyes, even more vivid with the contrasting pink in his bloodshot whites.

Michael wasn’t sure whether he was angry, horrified, or heart-broken. He was shaking. What had he done wrong? Why was Lucifer rebelling in such a way? He raised him better than this, what had he done wrong?!

His voice was quiet when he said, “Go to your room.”

Lucifer obeyed immediately, rushing off and Michael sank to the floor.

Michael was a good son, and he had three younger brothers he loved very much. He was the eldest, and as such, much was expected of him. He had to be an example, he had to show his younger brothers how to be good, how to be perfect.

But he slipped sometimes, and he kept Lucifer’s secret, even though he knew better.

(He told himself it wouldn’t happen again, no need to snitch Lucifer out.)

Perhaps he should’ve told their father. Maybe, maybe if he had done that, things would be different. Maybe if he told their father, Lucifer wouldn’t have continued sneaking around. Maybe they could’ve sent Lucifer to a psychologist to find out what was wrong. Maybe they would’ve found out Lucifer was depressed and chasing happiness. Maybe Lucifer wouldn’t have climbed through his bedroom window again to go with his friends to chase that happiness. Maybe marijuana wouldn’t have stopped being enough for that happiness. Maybe Lucifer wouldn’t have had a small baggie of heroin in his palm as he sneaked back into his bedroom, maybe Lucifer wouldn’t have snorted the drugs, maybe their father wouldn’t have unexpectedly come home expectedly drunk, maybe their father wouldn’t have gone into Lucifer’s room, maybe he wouldn’t have seen Lucifer higher than a kite, maybe he wouldn’t have seen the drugs, maybe their father wouldn’t have yelled, wouldn’t have slapped Lucifer, wouldn’t have screamed at him, wouldn’t have driven him to juvenile detention for an overnight stay, wouldn’t have—

Maybe, things would be different, if he had just told their father when it first started, when Lucifer came home reeking of pot.

Michael was a good son, and he was his father’s perfect little soldier. Whatever his father told him to do, he obeyed. _Take Gabriel to your uncle’s house; he’s too young to be around this._ Yes, sir. _Tell Raphael to go on that church weekend retreat that leaves tonight._ Yes, sir. _Kick Lucifer out, and never speak to him again._

…Yes, sir.

The house was empty; their father had stormed off to God knows where, Michael had dropped Gabriel off at Uncle Odin’s, Raphael had hopped on the bus for the retreat, and Lucifer was…more than likely curled up in a ball, terrified, shivering in a cell for the night.

Michael was alone and standing in Lucifer’s room with a small, measly box by his feet; he didn’t think. He wouldn’t be able to do this if he was thinking, so rather than think, he mindlessly pulled clothes from his little brother’s closet and dresser and dropped them unceremoniously into the box. When it was full, he taped it up, wrote “Lucifer” on it in sharpie marker, and dropped it on the front porch.

He locked every window and every door to the house, and fell asleep in the bathroom after a long night of being hunched over the toilet, retching into it.

His father called in the morning, and Michael blearily answered the phone, his eyes pink and stinging from his tears the night before. “They’re releasing Lucifer from juvie this morning. Under no circumstances are you to see him, pick him up, talk to him, anything. He is a monster for endangering our family with his sins, and you are not to associate with monsters.”

Michael felt like he was going to throw up again. “Yes sir,” he said, startled by the hoarseness of his own voice.

“He’ll try to get in the house. Do not let him in the house. Not even if he tries to manipulate you with his begging.”

“Yes sir.” His voice cracked.

“If he tries to break in, call the cops.”

Michael didn’t reply; tears were rolling down his cheeks again and it was hard to breathe. He should be defiant for once; this was his brother they were talking about! And it was his fault for not getting Lucifer help in the first place—

“ _Michael_.”

“Y-Yes sir,” he choked out, wiping his tears.

“That’s my good boy. Pick up Gabriel before Church on Sunday; I’ll drive Gabriel and Raphael home that day and explain what happened so you don’t have to. I love you.”

The line clicked and Michael was met with silence, until the sounds of his own wailing echoed through the house.

Several hours later, the brunet was curled on the couch, numb and clutching Lucifer’s pillow to his chest. He heard a car door shut, and a very faint “Thank you, officer” and a shuffle of feet that was unmistakably his younger brother. The tears already sprung to his eyes.

There was a pause for several long moments; certainly, Lucifer was staring at the box, trying to figure out what in God’s good name was going on. And then, the sound of the doorknob being tried without success. Another pause, and the doorknob being tried again, far more aggressively. A slightly panicked sound, and sneakers beating the ground as Lucifer ran around the perimeter of the house, trying every window and door, only to find each one locked. He returned to the front door, fist rapping quickly on it as he jiggled the knob in vain.

“Michael, please! Open up, I know you’re in there!”

He didn’t answer. He just squeezed his eyes shut and hugged the pillow tighter to his chest. The knocking turned into heavy pounding, as Lucifer grew more frantic. “Open up! I’m sorry, okay?! Please, let me in, I want to come home, please! Let me talk to Dad!” He still didn’t answer.

Lucifer started kicking the door and throwing his body against it, screaming. The neighbors would be sure to notice the scene, and it was humiliating. What would they think? He should just let him in, hug him close and pet his hair, whisper in his ear and promise him that they’d get him help, shh, it’s okay Luce, I’ve got you—

_Do not let him in the house. Not even if he tries to manipulate you with his begging._

Michael let out a choked sob; Lucifer wouldn’t be able to hear it anyway, not with his own loud cries. “Micha! Micha, _please_! Please, let me in! Don't do this to me! Please, I need you! You’re my brother, aren’t you?! Please, Micha!”

The screams continued on until Lucifer’s voice was hoarse, until his throat was raw and his sobs were gurgled and he sounded like an animal, like…like a monster. His poundings on the door grew weak, and Michael heard Lucifer slump to the ground, reduced to pitiful begging and bargaining.

_I’m sorry, forgive me, please, don't do this to me, please, forgive me, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, forgive me, please, don’t do this to me, please—_

Michael wasn’t sure if it was Lucifer, or himself who was speaking.

But everything went quiet again, save for Michael’s own hiccupping sobs, and the brunet thought…maybe Lucifer left, without him noticing.

…No, life was never that easy for them. He heard Lucifer stand back up, and the sound of a large, semi-heavy item being thrown with force against the door.

“Fuck you, you motherfucking son of a bitch! Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you! I hate you! I fucking _hate_ you! I hope you burn in Hell, I hope you fucking die!”

And then Lucifer ran off, and Michael’s heart shattered. It took him another two hours to stop his own wailing, and an hour after that to slink off the couch and open the front door, where Lucifer’s box of belongings lay damaged from the force of it slamming into the door. He picked the box up, and trudged to the trash to dump it in.

Michael was a good son, and he had two younger brothers he loved very much.


	2. (Deceptive) Smiles

If Lucifer were ever asked “why,” he’d deny that it was to support his addiction. He wouldn’t lie, no. But he wouldn’t tell the whole truth; part of the truth was that he was doing it pay Azazel Masters rent as thanks for taking him in nearly five years ago when he was homeless and starving and cold and destitute. It was a good enough reason as any, and he clung to it because if he didn’t, he’d have to accept the cold hard truth that he was worthless.

…Besides, it always felt nice when he returned home and handed Azazel a fat stack of cash, and the man was so pleased that he pulled the blond into his lap and kissed him senseless. “You’re my angel,” he praised, and Lucifer’s pupils dilated and his breath caught in his throat, because any time Azazel said he was an angel, that meant he was about to be rewarded.

Azazel was a man of average stature and weight, with brownish-gray hair, and no one would think anything of him were it not for his more unusual features; his skin was sallow and gray looking, his teeth perfectly white and straight and unsettling. But most unusual were his eyes, which were yellowish in color in the corneas, the irises a bit more on the yellow side of hazel. They were almost reflective—so much so, it was difficult to see where his pupils started and ended.

But sure enough, Azazel got to his feet and Lucifer immediately wrapped his long legs around the man’s broad hips; the man carried the teen to his bedroom and tossed him to the bed, and Lucifer looked up with a worshipping stare, pure reverence as the man peeled off every single article of clothing from his thin, pale body.

Azazel’s yellowed eyes roamed over the blond’s naked form, appraising him, but a frown soon graced his lips as gentle fingers traced over mottled bruises on the young man’s hips.

Lucifer always was ashamed of those, and he turned his head to the side. “They refused to be gentle,” he said, and Azazel sighed.

“My poor angel…daddy will take care of you,” he cooed, tugging on a thin chain around his neck.

Lucifer sat up in excitement, his fingers already twitching before the key attached to that chain was even visible, and started salivating, watching Azazel with hunger in his tired eyes as the man unlocked the drawer of the bedside table. He pulled out a tin case—a little smaller than a diary—and handed it to Lucifer, who eagerly released the clasp to display a rather ornate, needled syringe and a metal spoon.

The blond was already fishing his belt from his discarded jeans and wrapping it tightly around his upper arm when Azazel finished pulling out a bottle of water and a baggie of beautiful, gorgeous heroin.

Lucifer’s right arm was just starting to feel numb as the older man finished mixing the crystals together with the water in the spoon, and when he was done, Lucifer snatched up his needle and started pulling the drug in. “Easy there, tiger,” Azazel warned as he watched the syringe quickly fill up. Lucifer stopped but acted like he didn't even hear the man, though he wasted absolutely no time in sliding the needle into a vein with eerily practiced ease; he injected the drug just a heartbeat later, and the feel of the drug quickly shooting up into his bloodstream was in and of itself enough to slam the blond into a state of euphoria.

He pulled the needle out once he had injected every last drop, and in one instantaneous moment, fell back to the mattress and stared up at the ceiling.

There was a click and then Azazel was talking to him, he was sure, but Lucifer could not figure out what the fuck he was saying. It was all gargled together, but…it sounded like it was nice, so the blond merely hummed, needle resting in his limp hand. Another click.

And then his pale legs were spread apart, and two fingers circled his hole, and Lucifer opened up easily as the intrusion slipped in.

…It wasn’t always like this. He had never intended for it to get this far. But life was an absolute fucking bitch, and Lucifer found himself in a freefall from comfort and stability to what could only be described as an absolute hell, a prisoner of his own mind. 

 

* * *

 

He was six when his mother passed. She was pregnant with his youngest brother Gabriel, but there were complications he heard, and lots of blood, and the doctors tried to save her and Gabriel both. But it just couldn’t be done.

Lucifer wanted to detest Gabriel for it, but…he couldn’t. He remembered putting his sticky, PB&J coated hands on his mother’s naked belly and loudly proclaiming “I love mommy’s tummy and I love my baby brother!”

He remembered his mother laughing when he’d kiss her tummy, and the way she’s gently say “Make sure you love him and kiss him just as much as you do now, my darling Luca.” He wasn’t going to break that promise. So as much as he wanted to detest Gabriel for living while their mother died, he couldn’t. He loved him, and he knew his mother would be heartbroken if he didn’t kiss him.

Besides, their father certainly wasn’t going to do that. He turned to drinking as his medicine for his mourning, broken heart.

Lucifer felt like he had lost both of his parents.

 _Michael_ was the only one who paid attention to him anymore. He was the only one who would bandage up his scrapes and boo-boos and wrap his arms around him and comfort him when he got too sad and started wailing. Michael was the only one who would smile at him and protect him from the monsters under the bed, who would give him the toy in the cereal box, who would hold his hand as he walked him to his kindergarten class after Auntie Amara arrived to take care of toddler Raphael and baby Gabriel (Lucifer didn't like his Auntie Amara. She was scary). Michael was the one who would let him crawl into his bed when he had a nightmare, the one who would let him cuddle up until he fell asleep again.

When Lucifer was a little older—about ten, the age Michael was when their mother died—he helped Michael take care of the younger kids. He’d give Gabriel piggyback rides to daycare while Michael did to Raphael what he did when Lucifer was six; hold his hand and walk him to kindergarten. After school, Michael would take Gabriel up for a bath and Lucifer would help Raphael with his homework (and sometimes they’d sneak in cartoons and their laughter would bring Michael downstairs, an annoyed look on his face).

He kept telling himself he didn’t have it bad. And truthfully, he didn’t. They weren’t poor, and he was surrounded by love and support. But he…he wanted his dad.

Charles Shurley would come home very late at night, completely wasted and reeking of stale cigarette smoke and cheap whiskey. But Lucifer didn’t care about that; he’d hear his dad stumbling in late at night and he’d scramble out of bed and run to him and fling his arms around him. “I missed you, Daddy!” he’d say in a hushed tone, so as to not wake his siblings.

“No, I—not now, Lucifer,” Chuck would say, and he’d look up just as Michael emerged from his room.

“C’mon, Luce, let’s get back to bed,” Michael would say, prying him away from their dad. Lucifer would cry.

He wanted his dad. But he couldn’t have him. His dad just simply didn’t care anymore, and it _killed_ Lucifer. He started to slowly slip, growing a touch sadder with each passing day, until he eventually felt numb and dejected. He found it hard to even be happy anymore.

Church didn’t even help anymore. He used to confide in his pastor, and his pastor always prayed with him. His faith in God and His love used to give him meaning. But now it was all unanswered prayers, and his faith was shaken. He just wanted his dad, he wanted his family back, and he wanted to be happy!

But he could only control one of those things, couldn’t he? He could control his happiness.

And so he finally tried to control it when he entered high school, deciding enough was enough. He started hanging out with a group of people that Michael deemed unsavory, but Michael just didn’t understand. These people understood him, validated his feelings instead of forcing him to hide them away. They told him to stop caring about his father since his father didn’t care about him, and when that became too hard, they offered him marijuana. “Smoke this, eat this, drink this, lay down on the grass and stare at the stars.”

Lucifer would get stoned out of his fucking mind, and for the first time in a long time, he found laughter in his lungs. He’d joke with his new friends, laugh, and feel happy and he never wanted it to end.

It could never last long enough, though, and every time he got high, he was forced to get low again.

He chased it, every week at first. Then every other day, then every day, then a couple times a day until it just wasn’t enough anymore to be happy, and he started to panic. He didn’t want to lose his happiness; he didn’t want to feel so distressed again. He didn’t want to feel numb.

His friends saw him slipping, and, scared for him, gathered up the money to gift him with a stamp in a desperate attempt to keep him from resorting to suicide. They shoved the baggie into his hands after school one day, after he had broken down into tears and threatened to jump off a fucking bridge because no one loved him! No one!

“Take this, Luce, please. You’ll be so happy, you won’t want to die!”

Lucifer went home and immediately shut himself in his room, and snorted the heroin.

His friends were right; he didn’t want to die. He was so damn happy, and all he was doing was resting on his bed, staring at the ceiling. He was in heaven; everything was going to be okay—

Chuck came into his room, completely drunk and with an apology on his lips, but it was stolen away when he saw his son, looking damn near comatose, and remnants of heroin on his desk next to a rolled-up dollar bill.

He yelled at him. Slapped him. And Lucifer ended up in juvenile detention for the night, where he couldn’t sleep. He was cold and scared and his high quickly wore off, and he wanted nothing more than to crawl into Michael’s bed and cuddle up to him like he used to. Perhaps…perhaps tomorrow night. He could try being happy, just with Michael and Raphael and Gabriel. Maybe they’d understand…

But no one came to pick him up. An officer took pity on him and drove him home, and he thanked the man when he got out of the police car.

There was a box with his name on it on the doorstep, however, and Lucifer’s heart dropped to his gut. No. No, no, no, no no no no no nonononono!

He tried the doorknob. Locked. No. His breathing picked up—tried it again, jiggling it, practically trying to rip the doorknob off in his attempts to open the front door. He sucked in a panicked breath. Breathe. Breathe, remember to breathe! Fuck!

Lucifer ran around the house, trying every fucking door and window, but each one was locked. No. This wasn’t happening! He was back at the front door; he pounded a fist against it while he tugged at the doorknob again.

“Michael, please! Open up, I know you’re in there!”

He pounded his fist even harder.

“Open up! I’m sorry, okay?! Please, let me in, I want to come home, please! Let me talk to Dad!”

Nothing. Was he really hated that much? Did his father really hate him? Did Michael really hate him? He screamed in agony at the thought, tears streaming down his face. Why?! Why?! He just wanted to be fucking happy!

“Micha! Micha, _please_! Please, let me in! Don't do this to me! Please, I need you! You’re my brother, aren’t you?! Please, Micha!” he begged, wishing this was all just a nightmare. But no one came to the door, no one let him in.

…He _was_ hated, wasn’t he? He was hated. Forsaken. No one loved him, not anymore. He slumped to the ground, his throat raw and sore but he still begged—prayed.

“I’m sorry,” he cried, voice cracking. Hands folded together, as if in prayer. “I’m sorry, forgive me, _please._ Don’t do this to me. Don’t— _please_!”

He wasn’t sure how long he begged. But he eventually stopped, weak and tired and apathetic, and he could do nothing but stare at his lone box of belongings, for God knows how long.

God. _God._ Fuck God. Fuck him, fuck everything.

Anger festered slowly within him. If no one loved him, he loved no one. And so he stood, and he grabbed his box, and threw it against the door in a final act of defiance against those who had forsaken him.

“Fuck you, you motherfucking son of a bitch! Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you! I hate you! I fucking _hate_ you! I hope you burn in Hell, I hope you fucking die!” he screamed.

He ran off, refusing to turn back ever again. He didn’t need anyone, and no one needed him. He was foolish to have sought out love; he wasted his time.

Even his friends turned him away. They cited fear being the reason for it: “You got caught. You’ll pose a threat to us, you can’t hang around us anymore.”

Lucifer didn’t know why he kept feeling this sense of betrayal. Surely, he should be used to it by now. But he wasn’t, and it didn’t get easier. Just harder, and he didn’t know how he was going to survive.

Being forced to sober up while being homeless and starving was quite possibly the worst combination the blond could think of. He never wanted to die more than he did in those first couple of months, as spring slowly turned to summer. Rebirth. Hah, what a fucking joke. Lucifer gripped the railing on the bridge, staring down at the water reflecting the moon and stars. No one cared, just do it.

He closed his eyes as a couple tears fell, and started to hoist himself up, ready to plunge to the cold waters below, when something heavy and warm draped over his shoulders. Lucifer smelled leather and cologne, and he looked up in shock at a gray-haired man with yellowed eyes, who smiled at him in response.

“You looked a little cold there, kiddo,” he said, and Lucifer burst into tears. The man immediately wrapped his arms around the young teen, hugging him close. “It’s okay, I’ve got you. Tell me, what’s your name?”

“L-Lucifer,” he choked out between his sobs, hugging the man close.

“Lucifer. It’s nice to meet you. My name’s Azazel; I have two girls around your age, I think. Meg and Ruby. Meg’s twelve and Ruby’s fourteen.”

“T-thirteen,” Lucifer said, squeezing his eyes shut as he tried to control himself.

Azazel hummed. “Just starting life, then. Don’t end it before you’ve gotten a chance to live, kiddo. Things will get better, I promise.”

“They won’t, I have no family, no home, no friends, and I—I-I’m a druggie, I have no w-worth—!”

The man cooed, gently hushing Lucifer as he petted his dirtied blond hair. “Then let me be the start of things getting better for you. You can stay at my place; you’ll have a place to sleep, and food, and my family can be yours, if you’d like.”

Lucifer looked up at the man, blue eyes made that much more vivid when accented by pink sclera. His cheeks were warm and wet and blotchy, his eyebrows knotted together almost painfully. He nodded frantically. “I’d like that,” he quickly said, heart thundering in his chest. “I-I can help out around the house, too. I can cook and clean and—“

Azazel hushed him again, putting a finger to Lucifer’s quivering lips before he thumbed away his tears. “Don’t worry about that just yet, kiddo. Let’s just get you back on your feet, okay?”

The blond nodded again, and hugged Azazel tighter. “Thank you.”

A smirk found its way onto Azazel’s features, his look predatory; didn’t matter. Lucifer couldn’t see him, and his voice was deceptively kind. “Don’t thank me.”

 

* * *

 

It was two months since he moved in with Azazel. Two months that he had been sober. And it was so fucking hard; all he wanted to do was smoke something because even though he had a home and two sisters and a father figure, he kept thinking of his old family.

His old family…who didn’t seem to care what happened to him. Lucifer hugged his legs to his chest and buried his face in his knees one night after Meg and Ruby went to bed, and Azazel started to walk past him when he paused, and sat down next to him on the couch. “What’s bugging you, kiddo?”

Lucifer shook his head, and wiped his tears when he lifted it from his knees. “Nothing.”

“Bullshit. Tell daddy the truth.”

The blond shivered, heart hammering. He felt terrified, for some reason. “I-I’m…I’m thankful for everything you’ve done, Azazel,” he started, refusing to call his new father figure his…well, father. “B-But I just…I’m still so upset because no—n-nobody loves me.”

Azazel hummed, and wrapped an arm around Lucifer’s shoulders and pulled him closer. “That’s not true, Lucifer,” he said, hooking a finger under the blond’s chin and tilting his head up. “ _I_ love you.”

This was wrong, and alarms were going off in Lucifer’s head. He quickly scrambled out of Azazel’s embrace, looking like a frantic and frightened doe as he got to his feet. He had to get out of there, he wasn’t safe—blue eyes darted to the front entrance, while calculating and predicting yellowed eyes watched him closely. “No, you don’t. You’re a creep.” Azazel’s lips turned upwards into an unkind smile.

“I do love you, kiddo. I told you I’d help you get better, didn’t I?” He stood as well, and Lucifer cowered back, fearful, as the man reached into his back pocket. A gun? Lucifer’s mind was buzzing, but Azazel pulled out a small baggie of—

His mind short-wired, eyes zeroing in on the stamp of heroin.

“Do you want it, Lucifer?”

“Where did you get that?” He was salivating.

“That wasn’t answer, kiddo.”

Lucifer’s eyes flickered up to Azazel’s face, and then quickly back to the stamp, as if it would disappear. He nodded frantically, and took a step forward; Azazel tutted and pocketed it once more, holding up a finger as he slowly sat back down. Lucifer made a sound of distress. “Yes, Azazel, yes! Please, I need it—“

The man placed an arm on the back of the couch and smirked. “How badly do you need it?”

The blond answered by scrambling onto the man’s lap, small hands pressed to his chest. “I need it bad, Azazel, please—“

“Tell daddy what you’ll do for him,” he said, voice slimy and lewd as he drew his hand down Lucifer’s back. He paused at the small of his back when the blond’s breathing picked up and he shivered.

Lucifer swallowed hard, his face flushed in shame. “I-I’ll kiss him.”

“Kiss who?”

“I’ll kiss daddy.”

Azazel hummed. “That’s my good boy. Kiss daddy, and he’ll reward you.”

The blond gulped and licked his lips and nodded, and he was trembling as he squeezed his eyes shut and leaned forward, pressing his soft lips to Azazel’s chapped ones. The hand on his back dropped further to grope his ass, and Lucifer gasped and a tongue flickered into his mouth with practiced ease. Startled, he attempted to pull away but another hand found his golden hair and grabbed a fistful of it, keeping him in place.

Lucifer squirmed, heart hammering; he didn’t like this, he didn’t like Azazel’s tongue in his mouth, didn’t like Azazel’s groping hands, didn’t like Azazel’s growing erection beneath him. His small hands curled on the man’s chest as he devoured his mouth and sucked on his tongue and lips until they were pink and wet and swollen.

Azazel broke the kiss with a wet pop, a thin string of saliva connecting them. He grinned, toothy and vicious and demonic, and Lucifer trembled in his lap.

“Please—“ Lucifer begged again, tears springing to his eyes.

Azazel at last conceded. “Of course, angel,” he said, and the blond was shoved onto his back on the couch, and the man pulled out the baggie once more. Lucifer watched as Azazel made a neat line on the coffee table, watched as he procured a dollar bill and rolled it up and handed it to him. Lucifer sat up quickly and slid off the couch, falling to his knees and bending over the line. He snorted it quickly, with urgency, like his life depended on it.

And when he tilted his head back, face to the ceiling and eyes fluttering shut, he felt that first rush hit and he was in heaven once more. The hand at his back, his neck, trailing to his hair…it felt perfect, and Lucifer didn’t want to give this up. He didn’t think he could ever give this up again.

He felt simultaneously weightless and heavy—it was an odd sensation—like he could float away at any given moment, but he couldn’t physically move. The world was rocking; his body was warm, his mind tingling in pleasure, and he wanted to cry because he couldn’t remember the last time he felt so happy. He _was_ crying.

Lucifer was tugged gently, tugged to face Azazel and the man thumbed away his tears, his voice kind and gentle, though Lucifer couldn’t understand a word he was saying. He nodded, regardless, and the man appeared very pleased with that.

There was the sound of a zip being undone, and then the overwhelming scent of arousal. Azazel’s hand gripped Lucifer’s jaw, prying it open with ease, and the blond’s blue eyes fluttered shut as his mouth was stuffed full with cock.

 

* * *

 

It was easy to become addicted again. And it was easier to overlook each and every sexual favor Azazel prompted him for when he was rewarded with his vice, his lifeblood.

It started with make-out sessions, then doped-up blowjobs, then sober ones. Then lap-dances, and on to intruding fingers and then, when high, to spreading his legs wide to accommodate Azazel’s body between them as he forced his sex into his tight hole. All of that accumulating to Lucifer offering his lithe body up to the man every time he asked, completely sober, because he _needed_ heroin.

(He’d die without it.)

And every damn time, Azazel would purr praises into his ear as he fucked him, tell him what a good boy he was, tell him he was his angel.

Eventually, Lucifer started to willingly climb into the man’s lap, gyrating his hips and begging, “Daddy, please, I need to shoot up…”

This worked the first few times. But one day, Azazel shoved him off and growled. “Do I look like I’m made of money, kiddo? You’ve been a strain on the finances, lately. I can’t keep feeding you and bathing you and clothing you and supplying you with your drugs, all while trying to do the same for my daughters and myself. You want your fuckin’ drugs? Bring me home some money.”

Lucifer’s lip quivered, and tears started rolling down his cheeks. “H-How?” he cried. “I only just turned fourteen, I’m too young to have a job!”

That leering, slimy grin of Azazel’s found its way onto the man’s face again. “Not too young to put that pretty mouth and pretty ass of yours to work. Sell yourself to every businessmen and women with a fat wallet; they’re always willing to shell out the big ones to gorgeous little creatures like you. And you’re talented…you’ll be rolling in the dough in no time.” 

 

* * *

 

If Lucifer were ever asked “why,” he’d deny that it was to support his addiction. He wouldn’t lie, no. But he wouldn’t tell the whole truth; part of the truth was that he was doing it pay Azazel Masters rent as thanks for taking him in nearly five years ago when he was homeless and starving and cold and destitute. It was a good enough reason as any, and he clung to it because if he didn’t, he’d have to accept the cold hard truth that he was worthless.

There was a click and then Azazel was talking to him, he was sure, but Lucifer could not figure out what the fuck he was saying. It was all gargled together, but…it sounded like it was nice, so the blond merely hummed, needle resting in his limp hand. Another click.

And then his pale legs were spread apart, and two fingers circled his hole, and Lucifer opened up easily as the intrusion slipped in.

…It wasn’t always like this. He had never intended for it to get this far. He never intended to be nothing more than a drug-addicted prostitute, opening up for anyone who wanted an escort for the evening and who could afford the price-tag.

But…hey. Life was an absolute fucking bitch, so it only made sense to become one, too.


	3. Hope (And Disappointment)

It had been nearly five years since he'd gone through his once closest brother's room, dropping each of his possessions in a measly cardboard box that was to be taped up and left on the porch. A lot had changed since then. For one thing, Michael had finished high school—he'd graduated as valedictorian and captain of the football team, a local star adored by students and teachers alike. He'd been offered a scholarship at a prolific university, decided to study political science, and immediately distinguished himself as the brightest student the professor had seen in a long time. Everyone remarked on how promising he was, how great his future would be. Sure, Michael never quite felt as happy as they seemed to think he should be (college was far from home and he missed his siblings terribly), but his dad was proud, and he was in his final semester, about to graduate once more. It was worth it. Life was good.

It was even better when he was offered an internship at the local police station at the beginning of the winter semester; it was simple work—sorting files and papers and other menial tasks—but it paid well, and he got to get a head-start in building good relations with the law-enforcement (he wanted to be an elected government official to help out his city, state, and country—it would be highly beneficial to have the support of those around him, he thought). It also helped him see the areas in which his city needed improvement; he was horrified by his findings.

Michael knew the city had a problem when it came to prostitution, but he had no idea that the problem not only extended into human trafficking, but into child sex rings as well. It disgusted him to think that anyone could do such a thing—who would take advantage of children, and pawn them off like that?! He didn’t want to believe anyone could be so morally bankrupt, but…he had to. He had to believe it, so he could change it, and save those children.

But besides that fact, things had been going along pretty smoothly in Michael’s life, with no huge hiccups or surprises; it was just as he liked it.

…At least, they _were_ going smoothly. It was only just recently that his life was disrupted; a file was dropped in front of him, startling him from his work. Michael looked up to see Zachariah, a smug old man who was quite frankly irritating as all hell, but Michael got along fine with him, as the man seemed to respect him better than most anyone else around. “Hey Mike,” said Zachariah, giving the younger man a teasing smile. “Looks like we’ve got your brother on file.”

Surely, Zachariah was joking. It _had_ to have been a joke. Both of Michael’s siblings were clean and stayed out of trouble, neither had been arrested before. He raised an eyebrow and opened the file. Zachariah was just pranking him, he—

And Michael froze, eyes locked on the slightly blurry photograph staring back at him.

“Well?” Zachariah asked, craning his fat neck to read over Michael’s shoulder. “Lucifer Shurley. Younger brother, yeah?”

“No,” Michael quickly said, closing the file and shoving it off to the side. “I only have two siblings; Raphael and Gabriel. I’ve told you this before.”

Zachariah shrugged and took a sip of his coffee. “Alright, alright. Sorry, my bad. Just don’t see too many ‘Shurleys’ around, so I thought he might be related to you. In any case, we’re after that family he’s suspected to be with. Poor kid, getting caught up with the Masters? They’re a sick bunch.”

“Masters?” Michael paused, eyebrows knitting together. He remembered that name from his filing, and he felt sick to the stomach. Shit.

“Yeah,” Zachariah nodded. “Azazel and Alistair, brothers, and Lilith is Alistair’s wife. The three of them are a part of an extensive drug ring. Azazel in particular is one sick bastard; I’ve been trying to catch him for years.”

Azazel Masters. Michael tucked that name in the back of his mind for reference. “Do I want to know what makes him so particularly sick?”

The older man’s mouth formed a tight line, eyes growing hard. “Suspected of pimping out children, including his own.”

Michael’s stomach dropped. Yeah, he felt like he was going to be ill. “We’ll get him,” he said, voice assured and confident. There was no way Azazel would be left to roam freely.

Zachariah nodded in agreement. “We will.” And with a pat on Michael’s shoulder, the man took his leave.

It only took a couple seconds after that for Michael to open Lucifer’s file again, his eyes quickly scanning the information that lie there within.

 

**Name** : Lucifer Nicholas Shurley  
**Known Alias** : “Angel”  
**Sex** : Male

**Birthplace** : Chicago, IL  
**D.O.B** : January 19th, 1990

**Height** : 5’9  
**Weight** : 81.4 lbs  
**Hair** : Blond  
**Eyes** : Blue

**Known Relatives** : N/A  
**Education** : High school dropout

**Arrested For** :  
Shoplifting

**Suspected Of** :  
Drug abuse  
Drug dealing  
Prostitution

**Known Whereabouts** :  
Lyons, IL  
Chicago Loop  
Uptown, Chicago  
Lincoln Park, Chicago  
Lincoln Square, Chicago

**Assets** :  
Unknown

**Caution** :  
Suspect is connected with known criminals Azazel Masters, Alistair Masters, and Lilith Masters. Approach at own risk.

 

That was it. Michael blinked, then scanned over the file once again. And then again, a third time. He flipped the single page over, hoping to find more information, but there was none. There…there really wasn’t much to be learned from the file. He felt an overwhelming sense of disappointment, upset that regardless of how much he stared at the file and studied it, he knew he would find nothing to put him at ease. He closed the file and shoved it aside, getting back to work.

It was only at the end of his day that he even glanced in its direction again, the manila folder grabbing his attention far more easily than the excited chatter of people nearby. He was transfixed, felt like it was calling his name, his head pounding with an impending headache—Michael pinched at his brow bone, and sighed.

He snatched the folder and set it atop the box of files he had sorted through, and mad his way to the archives. Michael smiled at the pretty, redheaded detective he passed by along his way, but the smile dropped when he reached the door and keyed in the pass code. The lock whirred and clicked, and he opened the door and shouldered his way through, setting the box on a nearby table as the door closed behind him. He headed straight to section M-O, and quickly rifled through the boxes until he hit “M-A-S.” He slowed his pace, until he found MASTERS, Alistair. He pulled out the file.

 

**Name** : Alistair Masters  
**Known Alias** : Unknown  
**Sex** : Male

**Birthplace** : Chicago, IL  
**D.O.B** : September 18th, 1963

**Height** : 6’4  
**Weight** : 147.4 lbs  
**Hair** : Brown  
**Eyes** : Blue

**Known Relatives** : Azazel Masters, brother. Ruby Masters, niece. Meg Masters, niece.  
**Education** : Masters degree

**Arrested For** :  
Domestic abuse

**Suspected Of** :  
Drug abuse  
Drug dealing  
Human Trafficking

**Known Whereabouts** :  
West Englewood, Chicago

**Assets** :  
Unknown

**Caution** :  
Suspect is known to be violent; carries a knife with him. Suspect is connected with known criminals Azazel Masters and Lilith Masters. Approach at own risk.

 

Michael glanced at the mug shot, and felt a shiver run down his spine. The man’s eyes were cold and cruel, though the slight upturn of his thin lips gave the eerie suggestion that he didn’t care one bit that he was arrested, that he’d do it all again…whatever _it_ was. He shoved the file back in place, and pulled out the next one.

 

**Name** : Azazel Masters   
**Known Alias** : “Yellow Eyes”  
**Sex** : Male

**Birthplace** : Chicago, IL  
**D.O.B** : February 3rd, 1959

**Height** : 5’10  
**Weight** : 167.2 lbs  
**Hair** : Brown, gray  
**Eyes** : Brown

**Known Relatives** : Alistair Masters, brother. Ruby Masters, daughter. Meg Masters, daughter.  
**Education** : Unknown

**Arrested For** :  
N/A

**Suspected Of** :  
Child abuse  
Drug abuse  
Drug dealing  
Human trafficking  
Illegal gun ownership  
Kidnapping

**Known Whereabouts** :  
Unknown

**Assets** :  
Unknown

**Caution** :  
Suspect may have a concealed gun. Suspect is connected with known criminals Alistair Masters and Lilith Masters. Approach at own risk.

 

None of this was making him feel any better. He kept scanning over the little information. Child abuse. Drug abuse. Drug dealing. Human trafficking. Illegal gun ownership. Kidnapping. Michael’s eyebrows knotted together, and he silently prayed that the files were somehow wrong, that Lucifer hadn’t gotten mixed up with this crowd, especially not Azazel. He prayed, prayed that Lucifer hadn’t sunk that low. He prayed Azazel didn’t get his filthy fucking hands on his little brother—…on Lucifer. He prayed Azazel didn’t get his hands on Lucifer. He was just a child, and no child deserved this.

He took a breath, a little angered by the fact that an arrest hadn’t been made for this man yet, and thus no mug shot. He wanted to know what this man looked like, so he could keep an eye out for him. Bring him to justice, and…and save the children he was suspected of exploiting.

Steeling himself, Michael shoved the file back in the box, and rifled back a bit to MASTERS, Lilith.

 

**Name** : Lilith Masters  
**Known Alias** : “Miss”  
**Sex** : Female

**Birthplace** : Chicago, IL  
**D.O.B** : August 10th, 1981

**Height** : 5’7  
**Weight** : 103 lbs  
**Hair** : Blond  
**Eyes** : Blue

**Known Relatives** : N/A  
**Education** : Unknown

**Arrested For** :  
N/A

**Suspected Of** :  
Child abuse  
Drug abuse  
Human trafficking   
Prostitution

**Known Whereabouts** :  
West Englewood, Chicago

**Assets** :  
Unknown

**Caution** :  
Suspect is connected with known criminals Azazel Masters and Alistair Masters. Approach at own risk.

 

Again, Michael shoved the file back into place, feeling even worse than he had before he had the damn idea to snoop into the files. He was going to pour himself a stiff one when he got home, that was for sure.

Returning to his box of sorted files, he picked it up and put it back into place, snatching Lucifer’s file from up top and heading to the section labeled S to put it back in place…but not before swiping that small photograph and slipping it into his wallet.

Michael left the precinct not too long after, waving goodbye, and hopped on the bus to head home.

Home was a simple, clean apartment. It was nowhere near luxury, but it certainly wasn’t a place one would be able to afford to stay if one was impoverished. Michael made his way through the lobby, which looked as decent as the exterior of the mid-rise building and nodded his greetings to the security guard as he made his way to the elevator.

His apartment was on the fifth floor, and it was nice size; two bedrooms, one bath, a full kitchen…and a washer and dryer in unit. Décor was plain, ordinary, unassuming. A table and four chairs in the “dining room,” a gray suede couch and a matching chair and a wooden coffee table in the living room…a bookcase halfway between the two, stuffed full with college textbooks and leisure reading and DVDs and decorative candles as bookends. Here and there were stuffed low-maintenance potted plants and standing lamps, and mounted on the wall was a nice TV—the most valuable thing in Michael’s apartment.

The brunet slumped into the kitchen and promptly pulled out a short glass. He dropped inside it two ice cubes, before he poured in a generous amount of whiskey.

“Cheers,” he said to the air as he walked to the gray suede couch, taking a large sip and sighing. He sat down and turned on the TV, not really paying attention to the flickering images. He just needed some white noise to cancel out his racing thoughts.

…It was in vain, of course. After only a couple of minutes, Michael pulled out that small photo from his wallet and took another sip of whiskey. He stared at the boy’s mug shot, absorbing in all the details. Dull, lifeless, _tired_ blue eyes. Sallow, pale skin. A face far too thin to be healthy. Golden hair that still appeared to be so soft. Pink lips curved down into a slight frown. Sagged shoulders. Barely-there patches of slightly purpled skin littering the side of his neck and collarbones.

Lucifer Nicholas Shurley. Birthday, January 19th, 1990. January 19th. Just two weeks away.

Lucifer Nicholas Shurley. Height, 5’9”. Weight, 81.4 pounds. God, he was so underweight. Unhealthy. Likely malnourished, and—Michael wondered if he had enough to eat. If he could afford to even eat. Or if his broth—if Lucifer had an eating disorder.

Michael stared at the photo.

And he took another drink. 

 

* * *

 

“Snow is expected this afternoon, continuing through the night and into tomorrow morning. We should be seeing anywhere from six to ten inches—”

_Click._

The TV was shut off, and silence filled the room for a few seconds, before a sigh fell from Dick Roman’s lips. He tossed the remote to the side and ran his hands over his face and up into his tousled hair, tired, but awake nonetheless. The morning sunlight spilling into the room made sure of that.

Not that he could really complain; the man quite enjoyed being awake. It meant he could live out his dreams, and he was pleased that when he opened his eyes and stared down, his dreams truly were a reality. A smirk graced his handsome features as he stretched out and folded his hands behind his head, his voice a low purr as he spoke, “Such a good little whore you are, keeping my cock nice and warm in your pretty little mouth.”

Icy blue eyes flickered up when he was addressed, and Lucifer responded with a pleased hum, his hands massaging his client’s warm thighs.

“If you want to keep it warm in that pretty ass of yours, you’re gonna have to get me hard, princess. You know what to do.”

Lucifer hummed again, his eyelids drooping as he stared up at Dick from beneath blond lashes, his gaze seductive and far too mastered. But he _did_ know what to do, and he sank further down on the man’s length, relaxing his throat to take him all in, before he pulled up, almost off, and sank down again.

The sounds were wet, entirely lewd and vulgar, but far from sloppy. No, this was finesse, practiced to be as arousing as possible, and Lucifer knew exactly what to do to arouse Dick Roman.

He bobbed his head, sucked on the tip, swirled his tongue around the head, swallowed him down, hummed, pulled off with wet pops, kissed him along his length, pressed his tongue flat on the head—a hand tangled itself in his hair and Lucifer grinned; he was once again successful.

“You love sucking cock way too much, don’t you?”

“No. I just love sucking yours,” Lucifer replied, his voice rough and his jaw sore and aching but it was so fucking worth it. “I love riding your cock too, Mr. Roman…”

“Yeah? How many men do you say that to?” The man tugged on the teen’s hair, and Lucifer got the cue and quickly got to his feet; Dick watched as the blond adjusted those alluring lace-top, sheer white stockings so that they were hugging his pale thighs once more.

Bony hands skirted over hips as Lucifer proceeded to also fuss with the expensive garter belt fastened around his tummy, adjusting the straps and making sure the baby-blue bow was centered beneath his belly button. “Just you,” Lucifer lied, stepping forward just as Dick stood, and placed his hands now on the man’s naked hips. His small body pressed to the warmer, healthier one, and blue eyes slipped shut as he laved wet kisses over Dick’s neck, licking and sucking but being careful to not leave any marks.

The wealthy man sighed in contentment, his large hands sliding over Lucifer’s perfect, round ass and giving it a tight squeeze. “If I owned you, I’d make sure of that.”

“You own me for four more hours, Mr. Roman.”

He smirked again, his fingers roaming to the blond’s tight hole, circling, teasing. “This time. I’ll own you again next week, and again the next, and over and over again until you finally decide to leave that disgusting Neanderthal and exclusively be my escort.”

“Tick tock, Mr. Roman. Shut up and fuck me already.”

He hated when the whore would quickly divert the topic like that, but…well, Richard Roman wasn’t about to argue. He was more than happy to bend the pretty young thing over and oblige the one demand he was allowed to give.

 

* * *

 

“We’ve got them!”

Michael jumped in his seat, staring up at Zachariah with a look of bewilderment. It was late afternoon and it had been a week since the man had dropped Lucifer’s file on his desk, and the young man had succeeded in forgetting about it mostly, busying himself with his internship and schoolwork. “I beg your pardon?”

Zachariah gripped the edge of Michael’s desk and leaned in close, a large, excited grin on his face. “We finally caught the damn Masters!”

And it was back, full-force. Michael felt his stomach lurch, but his own excitement betrayed his features. He stood up. “Where?”

“I’m about to head to the house. Got them in Lyons.”

Lucifer Nicholas Shurley. Known whereabouts, Lyons, Illinois. Michael tugged on his jacket, and was following Zachariah by his heels as they headed to the man’s car.

The ride there felt like forever; it seemed like time itself had slowed down. The only indicator that it hadn’t was Zachariah’s insufferable gloating, but…Michael really couldn’t blame him. He’d be happy to finally catch such nasty criminals, too. He allowed the man his victory.

The snow on the ground was painted orange as the sun continued to sink into the horizon.

And then Zachariah turned a corner, and Michael saw the police cruisers. His heart started pounding fast, and he was unbuckled and out the car before Zachariah even cut the engine.

He hopped across the snowy street to the decrepit looking house, eyes immediately falling upon the line of shivering people sitting on the curb in handcuffs.

There were two girls, both incredibly young and one remarkably so, both with dark hair. The older looking one had her hair straight, and there were deep circles beneath her dark eyes. She wouldn’t stop staring at one of the officers, a look of barely-concealed rage on her thin features. She was wearing nothing but sweatpants and water-stained Uggs and a black satin bra, though someone had been kind enough to drape a blanket over her shoulders.

The younger one couldn’t have been any older than sixteen, Michael thought, judging by the soft baby fat on her cheeks, and he felt pity for her. Unlike the older girl, her head was turned down as she wept, reddened face partially hidden by her gentle curls. She was dressed more modestly in a pair of jeans and black booties with too high of a heel, a slinky purple shirt on her petite frame. Michael looked away, a slight blush on his face when the girl shifted, and the nipples of her tiny breasts showed through the fabric.

Another woman was there, much older than the other two, wearing naught but a white night-gown. He hair was long and blond and framed her face in loose waves, and her blue eyes were played up with seductive makeup. She appeared dangerous in expression, but her body language was alluring and Michael belatedly realize that she must be Lilith, and the other two girls were Ruby and Meg, daughters of…

Azazel. Suddenly, Michael knew why they called him “Yellow Eyes.” He caught the man’s appraising gaze, lecherous as it was, and he had to suppress the shiver that threatened to run down his spine. This was the man who had, assumedly, pimped out his daughters and…and Lucifer. He _looked_ like a fucking predator, and the smile he flashed Michael was anything but kind. He wondered how Lucifer could’ve fallen for this. Lucifer was smarter than this, he would’ve run the other way. How could Azazel have convinced Lucifer to join him?! No, he didn’t. That was the only explanation. Azazel had to have kidnapped Lucifer.

“You’re a pretty piece of ass, aren’t you, sweetheart?” Azazel cooed. “Didn’t know the force hired such pretty boys…do they keep you around as a fuck toy?”

“Masters!” An officer barked. “Keep it up, and we’ll have you additionally charged for sexual assault, as well as assault against an officer, you hear me?!”

“You’re no fun, _sir,”_ he sneered, but Michael had already shoved past him toward the house, ignoring the bile rising in his throat.

Lucifer wasn’t there. Nor was Alistair. They had the Masters, but not all of them. And not Lucifer. Unless—unless he was inside, being arrested still. Right? Lucifer had to be there.

The house was filled with several officers, snapping photos and collecting evidence. A gun, dirty syringes, weed, cocaine, heroin, bottles of prescription meds, condoms, cell phones, video cameras, laptops—the place reeked with the stench of drugs and sex and Michael’s stomach churned and he nearly threw up but there was no sign of Lucifer anywhere. Not in any of the three bedrooms, the biggest of which having the most lurid reek of sweat and musk and sex, not in the single bathroom dirty with grime and mildew, not in the basement that smelled of mold and piss. He wasn’t anywhere, and his heart dropped.

He didn’t know why he went. There was nothing there to set his mind at ease, nothing to tell him of his brother’s—of _Lucifer’s_ wellbeing—or lack thereof. Nothing, but a more vivid picture than he could’ve imagined of the life of squalor and evil that Lucifer was involved in. It was good that he cut him out. Raphael and Gabriel couldn’t be exposed to this, under any circumstance.

His chest hurt.

 

* * *

 

“Mike, you alright?” Zachariah asked twenty minutes later, walking up to the young man as he leaned against the older man’s car.

Michael shrugged and took a long drag of his cigarette, fingers cold. He flicked the ash off the end, and after a moment of contemplative silence, he sighed and turned tired green eyes to meet gray. “I’m just…disgusted. I don’t know how you and everyone else on the force do it.”

Zachariah gave Michael a sympathetic look. “To be honest, it never gets easier. No one on the force can really stomach it either; we all get sick when we apprehend fuckers like Azazel, but…someone has to do it.” He stared at Michael for a moment’s pause before he continued. “So _we_ do it. And _you_ help us do it. You wanna be a politician, yeah?”

The brunet nodded.

“A politician with a heart is exactly what the CPD needs. We need someone like you who will help back us, y’hear me?”

Michael nodded again, taking one last drag of his cigarette before he tossed it into the snow. “Thank you, Zachariah. I appreciate it. I…I’m going to call it an early day though, if you don’t mind.”

“That’s not a problem, Mike. Need me to drive you home?”

“No, thank you. I’m just going to take public transport. Try to have a good rest of your night.”

“You too.”

Then men briefly waved their hands at each other, but Zachariah turned back to his work while Michael walked down the streets to the closest bus stop. He knew for sure he was going to pour himself a stiff drink the moment he got home.

It didn’t take long for the bus to arrive, nor did it take long for the bus to arrive at the subway station after getting on. Michael politely thanked the driver before disembarking, then made the short walk across the street to catch his train. He scanned his pass for the transfer, waited for the train to arrive, then promptly got on and took a seat. At the very next stop, more people boarded; one man looked particularly shady and sat down next to him. Michael shifted a bit uncomfortably but otherwise said nothing…until the man curled his hand around the brunet’s thigh.

“How much to buy your pretty ass for the night?”

Two stiff drinks. Michael replied without batting an eye. “How much? You can ask the proper authorities I’d introduce you to if you don’t take your hands off me this instant.”

The threat worked just fine, and the man quickly stood up and changed seats. Michael huffed and closed his eyes briefly, wishing this train ride would be over soon.

He was only a couple stops away from his station when he heard a commotion; there was the sound of someone getting smacked hard, and angry yelling. It was the man from earlier, frustrated that he had thus far been unsuccessful in his quest for hookers he could pay to fuck. Michael couldn’t stand by, not after today. His patience was already low, and now he was just irritated and agitated.

“Stupid fucking whore! Gonna fucking kill you if you don’t put out—!”

Michael grabbed the collar of the man’s shirt and violently pulled him away from the distressed passenger, shoved him against the train’s doors and crowded into his personal space. “Consider this your last warning, you filthy maggot,” the brunet snarled. “If I ever see you harassing another person again, I will not hesitate to drag you to the nearest station and have you locked up. Do you understand?”

The man, to give credit, actually appeared to be terrified of Michael’s threat, and he struggled, trying to get away. Michael pinned him further. “Y-Yes!” He cried.

“Good. Now, you’re going to get out of my fucking sight at this next stop. You’re going to go home, and you’re going to cease bothering anyone else.”

The man nodded frantically, and the moment the train arrived at the next stop and the doors slid open, Michael released his grip and shoved the man off the train. The man scrambled down the platform to the sound of the other passengers applauding Michael.

He huffed, and finally started to turn to face the assaulted passenger once the doors slid shut again. “I’m terribly sorry you had to deal with that man.” His features softened, his tone far more gentle as he addressed him. “Are you alright—”

But Michael froze, his eyes focused on the young man sitting in front of him, nursing his tender cheek.

His expression of shock was perfectly mirrored in the pale face of Lucifer Shurley.


	4. (Not) My Brother

“Lucifer, stop. Slow down, let’s talk.”

“Stop following me, you fucking creep!”

“Well, this is my stop, so—”

The blond finally turned around then, heading back for the train. Michael was surprised that the look of intent on Lucifer’s face was still so familiar, like he was watching his baby brother go on a mission to steal a cookie from the cookie jar even after he said no. But the doors to the train slid shut before Lucifer could make it, and the train took off as Michael slipped his hands into his jacket pockets. He was unable to mask the amusement that polluted his features when Lucifer only became more frustrated.

“Lucifer,” Michael tried again, his voice going oddly soft. “Please, I just want to talk.”

And then…his former brother slowly turned back around, and Michael got to really look at his face clearly for the first time since Lucifer had been disowned.

It was clear to Michael that the years had not been kind to him; gone were the vivid brightness of his glacial blue eyes—they were dull and lacked any sort of luster—and they were sunken in and hollow, dark circles making them seem they only receded further. His skin was pale and lacking any color—save for the angry, red, hand-shaped mark on his cheek—missing that beautiful flush that used to paint his soft skin. Lips were turned down into frown, hatred curling the corners of his chapped mouth.

He certainly had gotten taller—Lucifer was now just a couple inches shorter than he was, and that was the strangest thing to Michael—but that seemed to be the only thing about Lucifer that had gotten any bigger. Sure as Michael suspected, the blond was severely underweight. He looked almost skeletal, so fragile, like Michael could break him in half if he dared act on his urges and hug Lucifer tight—

To Lucifer, on the other hand, Michael looked like he had earned the favor of God himself for striking down the fucking devil. Gone was any last trace of the awkward high-school gangling limbs (though, to be honest, Michael had hardly any to begin with); the tall brunet had filled out quite nicely, his leather jacket fitting snug over his arms, his button-up stretched taut over his chest.

Neatly groomed, hair perfectly styled, green eyes tired but still clear and bright, pink lips full and moisturized…Lucifer caught a waft of Michael’s crisp aftershave as the breeze made its way down into the subway tunnel, and it was the freshest thing the blond had smelled in a long time. It made him sick.

Michael blinked when Lucifer’s expression contorted into one of anger. “Are you just gonna stand there and look stupid and waste my time? Or are you actually gonna talk?”

“Walk with me,” Michael said, his voice even and demanding, despite Lucifer’s snapping demeanor.

“No.”

The brunet shrugged. “If you want to be arrested, then fine. Stay here; you’re a wanted criminal, Lucifer. Your… _friends_ have already been apprehended. The police will be after you, next.”

Lucifer stiffened up. “How do you know that?”

Michael opened his mouth to answer, but the blond interrupted.

“No, you’re bluffing. You’re trying to get me locked up again, trying to get me to admit to being associated with criminals, aren’t you?”

“If you would let me speak, I could answer,” Michael said, tone exasperated. Lucifer was already so draining. “I work as an intern at the CPD, so if I wanted to get you apprehended and arrested, I would've called the Chief of Police already and I would’ve personally seen to it that you were taken into custody. Yet here we are, talking like civilized human beings, because despite what you may think of me, I still—”

And Michael paused when Lucifer’s appeared to retreat in on himself, like he was trying to build a wall around his heart and mind, trying to protect himself.

“—care about you—”

“Bullshit.”

“—like I care about every other child in your position.”

“You are so full of shit, Michael.”

Michael. _Michael._ When his name slipped from Lucifer tongue, Michael felt an overwhelming sense of…something. He couldn’t place his finger on it, but he hadn’t heard his name fall from Lucifer’s lips—or anyone’s, for that matter—with such passion in a long time. Never mind the fact that it was passionate anger, he didn’t care. He had forgotten that his name could hold so much force within it until Lucifer reminded him it did.

He blinked again, and Lucifer was storming away, tugging his hoodie closer to his body as he walked toward the subway stairs. Michael followed him, but didn’t say another word.

They only spoke again when, after a couple more blocks, Lucifer abruptly stopped and faced him, the snarl on his face looking almost demonic under the deceptively warm glow of the streetlights. “Stop following me. I want nothing to do with you ever again, you fucking piece of shit.”

Michael was unflinching. “Language, Lucifer.”

“Ooh, you said ‘language!’ I’ll be a good little boy and stop swearing now…cunt.”

Sarcasm, childish outburst. It was unsettling how easy it was for Michael to recognize his former brother’s tantrums.

“You can hate me as much as you want, but I just want to make sure you’re safe.”

The tips of Lucifer ears went red with anger. “Why do you keep lying?! You don’t care about me, you don’t care if I’m safe or not because you haven’t for five fucking years! Why now? Is it because you feel guilt? Because you fucking should! It’s all your fucking fault that I’m nothing but a—!”

Michael grasped Lucifer’s shoulders before the word could even slip from Lucifer’s mouth, his expression steely and hard.

“I didn’t do this to you, Lucifer. I would _never_ do this to you, I would never wish this fate upon anyone, let alone a child.”

“You condemned me to it,” Lucifer spat back, his voice wavering and starting to break; Michael felt his heart give a painful tug. “And I’m not a fucking child. Not anymore.”

“You’re seventeen; you aren’t yet an adult. So a child.”

“By law, maybe,” Lucifer said, his body shaking. He wasn’t sure if it was from his emotions, or from the biting winter chill. The corners of his eyes stung, and Michael’s gaze honed in on the suspiciously wet corners of those eyes. “I was forced to grow up faster than you could possibly imagine. Kind of a side effect of letting men and women pay you for a share of your innocence.”

“Lucifer…”

“If you actually cared about me, you would’ve helped me! You would’ve talked to our piece of shit father, told him that I _needed_ him!”

“Lucifer.”

“Both of you abandoned me! Don’t tell me you fucking care when this all could’ve been prevented had one of you actually grew a fucking pair and did the right fucking thing! I could still be the child you’re convinced I am!”

“Lucifer—”

“I don’t want to be a fucking whore! I never wanted to be a goddamn fucking whore, but that’s all I’m fucking good for now!”

“Lucifer, shut the fuck up!”

The blond’s eyes squeezed shut, expecting a blow because his name being angrily yelled like that meant he was about to be hit, about to be thrown to the ground for being disobedient, about to be dragged by his hair to the steps to the basement and thrown down and locked in for days until he learned his fucking lesson—

But Michael pulled him close, squeezed him to his chest and hugged him tight; an arm wrapped around his thin shoulders as a hand weaved into his silky blond hair. He pressed Lucifer’s face to his shoulder and squeezed his own eyes shut, breathing difficult. He knew that at any moment, Lucifer would shove him away, yell at him, cuss at him. Because he didn’t deserve this, he didn’t deserve to hold the sibling he had abandoned, no matter how righteous his reasons were.

Lucifer might be the one responsible for his ill actions, but Michael knew he certainly didn’t help by hurting the blond and irreversibly damaging that trust they had so carefully built.

So he wasn’t surprised when that small body stiffened up, hands pressed against his chest and trembling—Lucifer would push away.

…But he _was_ surprised when he didn’t. When those trembling hands suddenly wrapped around his chest, under his jacket, when that frail and tiny body pressed against his frame and he felt the blond hiccup beneath him.

No words were exchanged as Michael turned his head and buried his face in that crown of blond hair, and Lucifer quietly sniffled and cried into his shoulder.

Most disconcerting was how Michael could feel Lucifer’s heart jack hammering against his own ribs, how he could feel the shift of bone beneath his hand, and how Lucifer’s ‘crushing’ grip on his back was weak, how his digging fingers only tickled.

He didn’t know how much time passed between them before Michael pressed a discreet kiss to Lucifer’s head, his voice a gentle murmur against his ear. “You’re safe now, okay? I’m here, I’ve got you. You don’t—you don’t ever have to sell your body as long as I’m here. I won’t abandon you again, Luce.”

A choked sob escaped the confines of Michael’s shoulder, Lucifer voice wet and muffled. “I have no choice, Micha,” he said, and Michael’s heart gave a squeeze. “I’m a fucking whore with no place to live anymore, I—you can’t keep me safe. I have no fucking choice!”

“Live with me.”

The gentle words slipped from Michael’s lips before he could even think about not saying them; he thought maybe he could say he said nothing, but Lucifer pulled away from the hug, looking at Michael in shock, cheeks wet and tear-stained and eyes pink, and Michael knew there was no way the blond had misheard. So he continued.

“I…I have a spare bedroom. And you can stay with me until you get better.” Shut up. Shut up, shut up, shut up! Michael’s mind screamed at him, told him he was supposed to never speak to Lucifer, per his father’s orders. Well…he already screwed that up, didn’t he? His mouth continued to run. “It’s—…it’s not far from here. My apartment. We can walk there right now, if you’d like.”

Lucifer only continued to stare at him, as if he grew another head. Why did he open his damn mouth?

“You can stay safe,” Michael finished, voice quiet and gentle.

And that was when Lucifer pulled away, looking like a creature made of ice, burned by the fire that was Michael’s touch. He saw the wall erected in the blond’s eyes instantly, saw how he shut off and curled in on himself, a broken and miserable and tired creature made of fucking ice. He broke Michael’s heart when his words affirmed his fears, “How can I trust you?”

Oh, he wanted to hold Lucifer again, wanted to pet his hair and coo gentle hushes into his ear and…and have his little brother back.

But Michael’s fingers twitched, and he didn’t hold Lucifer. He slipped his hands back into his pockets and told him the complete and honest truth. “You can’t.”

Because Lucifer couldn’t. Michael wouldn’t betray Lucifer again, and he could say ‘you can trust me’ as much as he wanted, but words held no meaning if the recipient didn't believe them. He was certain Lucifer wouldn’t believe him, so…he couldn’t be trusted.

And Lucifer…he actually appeared relieved, his shoulders relaxing.

Michael pressed on. “You can’t trust me, but I can promise you that I will not abandon you again, so long as you put forth the effort to abandon this degenerate lifestyle. You can stay with me as long as you need, as long as it takes you to become healthy once more. But you _have_ to put in the effort. That means no more prostitution, no more drugs. You _need_ to get better, Luce, you need—”

“Say that again.”

“I…beg your pardon?”

His breath caught in his throat; was that a glimmer of happiness in Lucifer’s eye?

Lucifer only stared at him, didn’t give an answer.

“…Luce?”

There was that glimmer again, stronger, and Michael got it. He smiled gently, fondly, and extended a hand.

“No more prostitution. No more drugs. Follow those two rules, and my home is your home. Do we have a deal, Luce?”

The teen’s icy, bony hand slid perfectly into Michael’s warm one. “Deal.”

He didn’t want to let go—Michael wanted to continue holding Lucifer’s hand until the young man finally healed, until that bony hand felt warm and soft and healthy. Michael wanted to close his eyes, and see a perfectly healthy, happy, handsome seventeen-year-old when he opened them. But he knew that things would be too weird if he didn’t let go, so he pulled his hand away and tucked it into his jacket pocket, turning his back to Lucifer.

…And of course, he couldn’t let himself get attached. _Kick Lucifer out, and never speak to him again._ Those words echoed in his mind, a direct order from his father; and here he was, disobeying it. He knew that he should stop right now, listen to his father before things turned to shit, but…part of him wanted to disobey. A disproportionally large part of him, for that matter. Still, his mind kept screaming at him, kept telling him that no matter what, he _had_ to listen.

If their father ever found out about this…Michael knew he would have no choice but to kick Lucifer out again. The thought made him sick to the stomach, so he shoved it aside. It wouldn’t happen, no. Lucifer would get healthy and on his feet and move out before Charles Shurley even had any idea Michael had come in contact with Lucifer.

“My apartment’s not far from here; it’s a short walk, but we’ll head there first so you can shower. Then we can go out to eat, get some food in your stomach.”

He started to walk, and at first, he didn’t hear Lucifer following him. His heart started to sink, until he heard the light patter of the blond’s feet on the pavement quickly catching up to him. Michael let a small smile grace his features.

But it was getting darker, and the wind was getting nippier, biting through Michael’s warm layers and chilling him a bit. He huddled his shoulders closer together instinctively, burying his face into his scarf, and he was lost in his own thoughts until he nearly tripped—Lucifer had accidentally stepped on his heels and apologized. Michael brushed it off until it happened again, and a third time, and a fourth. At that point, he glanced over his shoulder to chastise Lucifer for following him so closely, but he saw how the young blond was trying to bury himself in Michael’s back, shivering violently, shaking like a leaf.

He was tugging his measly hoodie tight around his slim frame, his cheeks bright pink from the unrelenting cold, his fingers looking an almost painful red.

Lucifer wasn’t stepping on him on purpose. He was just once again that tiny six-year-old, clinging to a ten-year-old Michael’s arm to try to stay warm as they walked home from school.

Michael stopped walking, and Lucifer crashed into his back.

“S-Sorry—”

The brunet shook his head, unzipping his jacket and shrugging it off his broad shoulders.

Lucifer watched him with a wary look on his face, until the older man held out the body-warm leather item to him as if it were a peace offering. Blue eyes flickered from the jacket to Michael’s face.

“…You look a little cold,” was the only explanation he gave.

Blue eyes flickered back to the jacket, and Lucifer couldn’t help but feel an overwhelming sense of déjà vu…but he reached forward regardless and wordlessly took the jacket, slipping it on after he set his backpack down.

He was swimming in it, but the article was warm and heavy and smelled of spicy cologne and aftershave; it was such a foreign scent, but one that Lucifer found himself attracted to, and he buried his face in its collar as he zipped the jacket up.

Michael smiled and continued walking, but the smile quickly melted away when the winter air assaulted him. How Lucifer could live like this, he didn’t know. How _any_ child could live like this, he didn’t know. It was evil to him, but he kept a neutral façade on his features so as to not betray his emotions. He needed to be strong.

They walked in silence the entire way, and it was almost unsettling to Michael how familiar it felt to have his Lucifer walking by his side again. Several times, he almost reached over to hold his hand. He had to refrain, though, and it was one of the most difficult things the young man had to do. For that, he was thankful when they finally reached the apartment complex, and they quickly crossed through the lobby to the elevators (he was also thankful for the warmth the building provided).

The elevator “dinged” once the pair had reached the correct floor, and Michael quietly said “This way” as he turned left down the hall. He waved to one of his neighbors—a young college kid—as the brunet was unlocking his apartment door. The kid waved back, but his eyes quickly fell on the unfamiliar face of Lucifer.

Lucifer stared back into the kid’s hazel eyes, and he couldn’t help but feel as if he recognized him. But the boy smiled and waved before he disappeared into his apartment. Michael cleared his throat, and Lucifer followed his older brother into their’s.

“That was Sam,” Michael explained after he shut the door. “Very nice kid; he lives with his brother, Dean. Dean can be kind of an ass, but he’s got a good heart. I’ll introduce you after you’ve gotten settled in, alright?”

The blond nodded as he peered around the apartment, curious. It was so clean and tidy and…so Michael. It smelled fresh, too, something he wasn’t exactly used to.

“Your room’s right here,” Michael explained, motioning to the room right off the entryway. “It’s really supposed to be an office, so there’s no door…” he said bashfully, “…so we can go to the store tomorrow and get a curtain or something to hang up. I haven’t had guests over, so the bed should be perfectly clean.” He continued down the hallway. “This is the only bathroom, so don’t take forever when you use it. That door there,” he pointed, “connects the bathroom to my room. It’s not a linen closet, so please don’t open that door when you use the bathroom. This is my room.”

It felt odd, being given a tour of the small apartment, but Lucifer just nodded with each step of the way to indicate he understood, though he did peek into Michael’s room out of curiosity. Plain. He should’ve expected as much.

“And here’s the combination kitchen, dining room, living room. I have cable and internet access, as well as Netflix, so feel free to use any of those but please do not use the pay-per-view options. Absolutely no porn—I don’t need my laptop infected.”

Lucifer smirked. “Got your laptop infected once before, Michael?”

“Absolutely not,” he said, though his cheeks flushing a bright red indicated otherwise.

The blond snickered, heading toward the bathroom. “Uh-huh, sure. I’m gonna take a shower—oh, shit. I really don’t have a change of clothes,” he pondered, motioning to his abandoned backpack on the ground. “I mean, all that thing has is some underwear, my cell-phone charger, and a shit-fuck-ton of condoms and lube—”

“You could’ve abstained from telling me those details, Lucifer. Honestly, it would’ve sufficed had you stopped at ‘I really don’t have a change of clothes.’ But don’t worry about it; take your shower, leave your clothes outside the bathroom door so I can throw them in the wash. I’ll leave a change of hand-me-down clothes in the guest bedroom. There are towels under the sink.”

Lucifer nodded his thanks, and waved over his shoulder to Michael before he disappeared into the bathroom.

Like the rest of the apartment, it was clean and simple. White cloth shower curtain, white tiled floor, white cabinetry, white sink. Three of the four walls were a light, pale gray, with one being brick. Large mirror over the sink, dark green hand-towel to the side, and underneath the sink was a stack of matching bath-towels. He pulled one out and set it on top of the toilet seat; the top of the toilet itself housed five white candles.

The blond turned on the vent fan and started to run the water in the shower before he quickly stripped down, opened the door a bit, and dropped his clothes off in the hallway before he pulled the door shut once more.

But Lucifer paused as he started to head to the shower, catching his reflection in the mirror.

Despite constantly telling him not to, Dick had once again littered his body with marks of ownership. Dark, finger shaped bruises on his hips and thighs and waist, mottled red hickeys along his collarbone and neck and chest. He turned around and looked over his shoulder—bruises on the swell of his ass, small claw marks where the waistband of his pants sat.

 _You moan just like a whore, princess,_ Dick taunted, slapping his hips against Lucifer’s rear. The blond could only respond by burying his face in the mattress, his pale hands grabbing tight fistfuls of the sheets. A hand found his golden hair, gripped it tightly, and yanked his head back. Lucifer cried out. _I want to hear you. Understand?_

_Y-yes sir._

_That’s my good princess. Can’t wait to make you mine, make sure the only name that you ever scream out is_ mine.

Lucifer sighed heavily, rubbing his hip absentmindedly. Had Azazel seen any of these, he’d be furious. _You’re decreasing your value to other clients by allowing him to do this to you!_ he’d snarl, and Lucifer would have to cower and beg and apologize to at best be denied heroin, or at worst, avoid being shoved in the basement and locked inside for several days until he healed up.

He normally could avoid Azazel’s wrath if, after returning home with the money, he excused himself to a ‘relaxing shower,’ his code-word that Meg picked up on. She would follow him into the bathroom and smear concealer on his wounds after he dried off.

She wasn’t here, though, but neither was Azazel. He didn’t have to worry about covering up his imperfections, he wouldn’t get yelled at.

So he stepped into the shower, forgetting about his bruises, and not even sparing a glance at the ugly, dark track marks staining the veins of his arms. He didn’t need to see the evidence of his worst sin, the one that put him down this path in the first place.

The water was perfectly hot, the pressure amazing. Lucifer’s shoulders immediately relaxed under the barrage of the water, his pale skin immediately blooming to life with color. It was so perfect, he could do nothing but stand there for several minutes, just letting the stream wash away the grime of sweat and lube, wash away the sins that were rubbed into his flesh. He imagined it all swirling down the drain, never to be seen again. This was his fresh start, the physical indicator of starting over.

The cleansing of his body had begun, and Lucifer was eager to really get it rolling—he grabbed the bottle of wash and squirted a copious amount into his hand, massaging the gel generously all over his body. It stung in places, where some of the bruises were far too tender, but it was a good sting and Lucifer sighed happily as he reached for the shampoo. He lathered his hair up, inhaling deeply as he washed himself, breathing in the intoxicating scent of purity, of cleanliness. It was so different than the delicate, flowery scents that Meg and Ruby had in the bathroom, which Lucifer constantly used. No. This was a warm, spicy scent of cinnamon and honey and Michael—

He rinsed off quickly, and shut off the water.

 

* * *

 

Michael had been sitting at the small kitchen table, trying to immerse himself in his textbook, trying to study and take his mind of everything. He didn’t want to think about this for too long, he didn’t want to question whether or not he was doing the right thing.

…Was he doing the right thing? Should he turn Lucifer in? He was a wanted criminal after all—

No. The brunet gripped the sides of his textbook tightly, eyes zeroing in on the large paragraphs littered with fine-print words.

 

 

> The social theory of crime assumes that social circumstances or cultural values cause people to commit crime. In effect, the causes of crime are social. Criminals are made not born: people are not born criminals they are made criminals by social circumstances such as poverty, violence, discrimination, neglect, bad upbringing, poor education, or other negative conditions or treatment.
> 
> Ideological beliefs about the causes of crime have a major impact on crime policy, particularly sentencing policies. The purposes of punishment include deterrence, incapacitation, retribution, and rehabilitation. The belief that criminals are evil justifies punishment policies that emphasize incapacitation and retribution. The belief that criminals are rational actors justifies policies that make the costs of crime higher than the benefits. The belief crime is caused by poverty or discrimination justifies punishment policy that encourages rehabilitation. The American political culture of individualism creates support for punishment policies that hold individuals responsible for their actions, including crimes.

 

Oh, thank God—he was pulled out of his reading with the sound of a door opening, and Michael looked up just on time to see Lucifer exiting the bathroom, towel slung low over his bony hips.

He saw the bruises littering his frail body, and Michael felt a stir in his gut he couldn’t quite place; it was a mix between revulsion and something oddly similar to jealousy, so he quickly looked down and tried to once again, take his mind off things.

…Still, he couldn’t help but wonder just how far down those bruises went.

Shit.

He ran a hand through his hair and sighed deeply, green eyes slipping shut as he felt a headache coming on. How would this even work? There were, of course, small instances of familiarity, but Michael didn’t even know Lucifer anymore. He couldn’t trust him, not really. What if he brought drugs in? He’d be evicted. It was no good; he had to get Lucifer out as soon as he could—

A hand landed on his shoulder, and he felt someone lean over his back, and he suddenly felt like he was fifteen again, one of his siblings trying to smugly point out a mistake he made in his homework. But the hairs on his neck stood on end when he heard Lucifer’s voice.

“Political Science? Why are you studying this boring shit?”

“This ‘boring shit’ will help me gain a position in political office after I obtain my degree.” Michael opened his eyes, and shut his book.

“You wanna be president or something?”

The brunet turned in his chair to look at Lucifer, and he couldn’t help but notice how much good a shower and clean clothes did him.

Gone was the grime and stink of sex and drugs, the dingy, threadbare clothes. The blond was fresh-faced, skin no longer looking ashy, and his hair looked impossibly soft and silky.

The clothes hung on him, like he was nothing but a clothes-hanger, but it was astounding how a clean, expensive blue sweater and a pair of crisp jeans made him look far more respectable and far less like…well, a drug-addicted hooker.

Seeing him as such made it far easier for Michael to see just how much Lucifer had grown; he certainly had gotten taller, his face without any baby-fat. He was—dare Michael even think it—actually quite handsome already, and…it felt strange to even think that, to think how once Lucifer got healthy once more, he’d likely be even more handsome. Gorgeous, even. Michael couldn’t wait to see what he would look like…

“I wouldn’t mind being president,” he quickly said, shrugging his shoulders. “But I could settle for mayor. Less traveling involved. You look good.”

Was Lucifer blushing?

“I think I look like a kid playing dress-up. These clothes are huge on me.”

Michael shrugged. “It’s just temporarily. We can shop for new clothes tomorrow for you; I’ll take the day off so we can get you settled.”

He stood up and absentmindedly grabbed the collar of Lucifer’s borrowed sweater, fixing it and smoothing out the wrinkles. He brushed it out smoothly with a sweep of his hands over the blond’s bony shoulders, before those warm hands curled around his upper arms, holding him in place. Lucifer stared up at him, and Michael’s breath caught in his throat.

Lucifer always had the prettiest eyes, Michael thought. He always likened their color to a cold, morning sun filtering through floating glaciers. To the sparkling reflections in arctic waters. To frostbite, nipping away at his soul.

They used to sparkle so brightly, as if the Heavens themselves resided within them, a fanfare of angels rejoicing and singing praises.

…But they had dulled, bleak and ripped of their luster—a deadly concoction of drugs and loss of innocence and mental illness—and while they weren’t as beautiful, they still _were._ Michael found himself leaning forward.

“I promise, I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure you are taken care of.”

“Yeah?” Lucifer’s voice was barely above a whisper, low and breathy.

Shit, Michael’s heart stuttered.

“I promise,” he reiterated, voice firm despite how he felt suddenly weak. “I’ll put you in rehab if I have to. I’m not gonna lose you to unnatural causes, not now that I have you in my life again.”

Lucifer smiled—a genuine, soft, kind, and dare he say happy? smile—and Michael’s heart skipped a beat again. What was going on? Was he having a heart attack? No, too young, too fit. Maybe he was just nervous. Nervous about Lucifer staying with him. It was pretty risky, after all. He could get caught, lose his job.

“I’m holding you to that promise,” the blond replied, but before Michael could even move, Lucifer leaned forward and wrapped his arms tightly around him.

The brunet found a blond head burying into his shoulder, nose poking at his neck and he was startled—he could do nothing but return the embrace—a laugh bubbling forth to mask how nervously his heart was beating. “Speaking—” Michael coughed, and tried again. “Speaking of taking care of you, how about we get some real food in that belly of yours? My treat, of course.”

Lucifer’s head lifted from Michael’s shoulder and the look that was present on his face made Michael wonder when was the last time anyone had offered the young man a decent meal.

“There’s this diner a couple blocks away that’s cheap but good. They have a really good spaghetti and meatballs dish—”

“I love spaghetti and meatballs,” Lucifer interrupted.

…That’s right, he did. Michael smiled softly. “I know. So go put on that jacket, and we can head out.”

Lucifer gave one nod of his head, a “Yes sir,” slipping easily from his lips as he finally broke the embrace and ran off a couple paces away to bend over and grab the discarded leather jacket.

Michael was left feeling cold, and he wasn’t sure if it was from Lucifer suddenly breaking out of his arms, or if that shiver that ran down his spine was due to how the blond addressed him. _Yes sir._ It wasn’t right, it felt so damn wrong. But Michael said nothing, and instead headed to his coat closet to grab a pea coat for himself.

Lucifer slipped his boots on and he practically skipped up to Michael just as the man finished buttoning the last button on the sleek coat and placed his hand on the doorknob. Already, his little brother’s mood was improving, and it hadn’t even been twenty-four hours since—

Little brother. Michael’s mind balked.

He wasn’t his little brother. Or…shit, was he? Did Michael even have the fucking right to call this creature his little brother anymore?

The blond seemed to pick up on the fact that something was wrong, and he tilted his head and raised one pale eyebrow. “…Michael? You okay?”

“What are we?” the older man suddenly asked, startling Lucifer with the intensity of his question.

“I—…what?”

“What are we?” He pushed again, voice firmer. “Are we a wanna-be cop and rehab, foster kid, or are we roommates, or are we brothers, or—”

They couldn’t be brothers. His neighbors already knew he only had two siblings, met them. How could he explain a third popping up out of nowhere without divulging the dark family secret, the ugly stain on their pristine reputation?

Michael watched with dismay as that happy glimmer slowly faded from Lucifer’s face, turned it into something cold and detached. His words were as clipped and steely as his eyes.

“I can be whatever you want me to be.”

There was that shiver again, and Michael couldn’t help but wonder how many times Lucifer had said those words, couldn’t help the gut-churning images that popped up in his head of the blond being hungrily appraised by some disgusting sicko pedophile. It was wrong. It was so fucking wrong.

_I can be whatever you want me to be._

_Yes sir._

_…a shit-fuck-ton of condoms and lube—_

Was there even a speck of innocence left in him? Or had it all been forcefully taken away from him?

Was Michael to blame?

He sagged his shoulders, but regained composure and stood up straight as he looked Lucifer dead in the eye, his tone nothing but complete seriousness.

“I want you to be whatever _you_ want to be, Lucifer.”

Again, Lucifer appeared startled, taken aback. He was given control, he was given the choice. And if the boy wanted to be brothers? Well, fuck it, then. Michael would suck it up and deal with his own shit when it came back to bite him in the ass, because he wouldn’t deny Lucifer this choice.

And his voice was soft once more, losing that defensive edge, that wall that he was so used to putting up. “I…I don’t know, actually. We’re…we’re brothers by blood, but that’s the extent of it,” he said with a shrug. He followed up with a silent pause, and then, “Old friends. You settled down, I wanted to travel. But now I’m back, and you’re providing me a place to stay in exchange for my stories.”

It was…a smart response, and Michael didn't think he could’ve thought up something quite as good as that. He was relieved, and he offered Lucifer a smile. “It’s perfect, Luce. That’s what we are, then. Old friends.”

Lucifer returned the smile, and quickly exited the apartment.

Just like Michael said, the diner wasn’t far from home, and the walk was relatively quick and short. The pair only just started to shiver by the time they stepped inside the cozy, mostly-empty restaurant and a waitress flashed them a smile and seated them. Lucifer took off his coat and got comfortable.

He didn’t even look at the menu; he knew he was getting spaghetti and hot cocoa and Michael briefly glanced over the selection to confirm that he, in fact, wanted a chicken pesto Panini.

The air was quiet, save for the occasional clink of cutlery against porcelain plates, and the low volume of Top 40 hits, and once when Lucifer sneezed. Their waitress came by again once they had a chance to decide on what was already decided.

“I’ll have a hot cocoa and spaghetti, please,” Lucifer said politely.

“S4, and a decaf coffee, black,” Michael said, handing the older lady the menus and thanking her. He turned his attention back to the blond sitting across from him.

His stomach churned uncomfortably. “So, Luce..?”

“Hm?”

“You have…stories, yeah?”

To his credit, if Lucifer was uncomfortable, he hid it quite well this time around. “I don’t think this is the right time or place to talk about them, Michael.” He glanced around, leaned forward, and dropped his voice. “I can guarantee you’d lose your appetite.”

“I can get a to-go box,” Michael countered. “Talk.”

“…What do you want to know?”

Michael watched as Lucifer leaned back against the seat, crossing his arms. Before Michael could answer, the waitress dropped off their drinks, and he thanked her once again. He wrapped his hands around the hot mug to warm them, noting how Lucifer didn’t even move or react. His eyes were distant, transfixed on a random spot on the diner table.

“Why Azazel?”

Several beats of silence. Then several more, and they dragged on, then more and Michael thought for a moment Lucifer wouldn’t answer, but the kid smiled and closed his eyes—he was trying to mask a world of pain, but Michael saw the fear there before blond eyelashes fluttered shut.

“He saved me.”

He waited for Lucifer to elaborate, but when it became clear the teen wouldn’t without prodding, he did just that. “How? Because to me, it seems like he destroyed you.”

Lucifer laughed, a small flash of teeth, but Michael felt like he was dying. There was no humor in that laugh, no inkling of happiness.

“I should be clearer. He might not’ve saved me, but he _stopped_ me.”

Please be wrong. “Stopped you from what?”

He shrugged his thin shoulders, acting as if the very words that spilled from his mouth were no big deal. “Killing myself.”

“Luce—”

“He told me he’d take care of me. That I could be happy again, and I was so desperate that I believed him because no one else cared to even _look_ in the direction of a dirty, homeless punk.”

There was a slow burn of fury starting to build in Michael’s gut, spreading up his chest. Fury at Lucifer, for being so fucking stupid, fury at Azazel, for taking advantage of a fucking kid, fury at himself for not protecting his fucking brother—

“So he manipulated you. Made you feel indebted to him for saving your life.”

Lucifer shook his head, fidgeting. “No. No, he ah…” Again, he laughed, but his jaw wavered, like he was trying not to break down. “H-He had a stamp. And I wanted it, so I…it was me. It was all me, all because I wanted to get high.”

Michael was speechless, and he stared at Lucifer as he finally started to curl in on himself, a pale hand gripping his opposite arm. He watched as nails curled into the sleeve of his sweater.

The waitress came by once more and dropped their food off, asked if everything looked good, and Michael absentmindedly answered, not once taking his eyes off Lucifer.

No, this couldn’t be right. It was the wrong narrative, Lucifer would never willingly whore himself out, drugs be damned. Right? Lucifer was better than that, he was smarter. He had better fucking morals, and he wasn’t high when he made that decision so it had to be fucking wrong! Azazel forced him into it…

“Tell the truth,” Michael said as firmly as he could.

(He couldn’t hide how his voice shook.)

“The truth is I made out with him and let him fuck my mouth because I’m a fucking junkie, Michael!”

Lucifer snapped, his blue eyes staring right into Michael’s soul, but…Lucifer wasn’t there. Michael was horrified to see that Lucifer wasn’t fucking there, it was an animal with wide, wild eyes, chapped lips, quickening breaths. He was shaking, sweat beading along his hairline, and Michael could feel so many pair of eyes on them.

His face flushed, but he had to push aside his embarrassment. He knew what Lucifer’s tantrums were like, but this wasn’t a tantrum. It was something far worse, he knew, something malicious, and he stood slowly, hands up and relaxed, placating.

“You were a child, Luce. You still are—he…h-he took advantage of you.”

The blond shook his head and stood up abruptly. He was trembling, breathing too quickly.

Not a tantrum. Anxiety attack, maybe? Whatever it was, Michael had to calm his baby brother. He had to let him know he was okay—

“Luce, you’re—”

“I’m the fucking devil, Michael. My own father saw the devil in my soul; saw I was nothing but a fucking demon, no angel. I should’ve fucking jumped and—” He slapped Michael’s hand away and bolted.

The waitress stood nearby, looking on in shock as her small hands covered her mouth. Michael shoved several bills on the table and took off after Lucifer, uttering an apology as he left the diner.

 

* * *

 

_You’re a disgrace! Such a pretty little thing~… You’ve got a sinful mouth, boy. How dare you bring this shit— Who’s next? He’s open all night, folks! —around your brothers! Daddy, something’s wrong with him, he’s not breathing! Stupid fucking whore!_

Lucifer slid down the side of the wall, hands curled tightly in his hair, tugging. He was cold. Hot. He was sweating, shivering—fuck! The air nipped at his cheeks, they stung? Tears. Why the fuck was he crying, stop crying, stop crying, stop cry—

_Stop crying; such a turn-off! Such a turn on when you dress up for me, princess. I didn’t raise you this way! On your knees open your mouth spread yourself come here don’t you fucking come— Can you even fucking understand me, Lucifer?! Look at me! —look at you, so gorgeous._

He ripped his hands from his hair, paying no mind to the silky, golden strands of hair that tore from his scalp. He needed to shoot up! He had to, he had—Lucifer shoved his sleeve up, saw the dark veins. They were calling to him, pulsing, throbbing, begging. He went to shove a needle in, but he had no needle. No heroin, nothing. He cried out.

_There’s evil inside you, Lucifer, and I can’t have that around your brothers! You like that, huh? Like having your ass and mouth stuffed with cock? Slut. Whore. Skank, hooker, my personal escort— You’re the devil. —…My angel…_

He scratched at the inside of his elbow. Lucifer scratched at it, because those dark, blackened veins were nothing but rivers of sin. He had to shoot up. No. He had to be clean, he had to be good, be an angel, be—but he needed it. He was dying, and he needed to shoot up to live, he’d die without it—scratch it raw. Rip it all out, start over, stop—

_Whore. Devil. Princess. Faggot. Slut. Disappointment. Cocksleeve. Gorgeous. Queer. Disgrace. Angel. Lucifer. Lucifer, Lucifer, Lucifer, Luce!_

“Luce!”

There was a vice on his shoulders, strong, gripping hands, and the warm, spicy scent of cinnamon and honey.

“Oh God, Luce, what—”

A hand dropped from his shoulder and knocked his out of the way; it wrapped itself around the crook of his elbow, so soft yet firm and so soothing to the scratched-raw, broken, bleeding flesh where the proof of his sins lay. Soft, firm, warm, cool…

Lucifer broke down into tears.

“Hey, hey hey hey. Shh, I’ve got you. I—fuck,” Michael swore, wrapping his spare arm around Lucifer’s shoulders and pulling him close.

Lucifer could feel his brother’s heartbeat against his own chest.

“Micha, please!” Lucifer sobbed. Michael’s breath hitched ( _Micha_ ), and the blond felt something wet drop to the top of his head. “P-please, I need to shoot up, I can’t do this!”

“Yes you can,” Michael uttered, pressing a kiss to Lucifer’s scalp. “You can do this, I believe in you. Just…j-just breathe right now, okay?”

“I can’t! I need it, Micha, I need—I need _something,_ please, don’t make me do this, I can’t do this!”

He didn’t know what to do. He felt helpless, and Michael simply didn’t feel helpless. He needed to hold on to Lucifer, needed to hold him to prevent him from breaking, but he didn’t know how to hold on to something so fragile without breaking it. He was never taught how to hold someone together. The blond’s arm was hot and throbbing beneath his hand, and he could feel a thin sheen of sweat despite the bitter cold. Something was _wrong._

Perhaps it wasn’t the best idea. Perhaps it was enabling. But in that moment, Michael didn’t care. He was terrified, so god-awfully frightened he was going to lose Lucifer again that he did what went against his better judgment. “Okay, okay, here—” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a half-crumpled box of cigarettes and with shaking fingers, placed one between his lips. He fished out his lighter and quickly lit the fag before he pulled it away from his own lips and pressed the butt to Lucifer’s lips. “Smoke.”

It was instantaneous—a sharp, sudden inhale—and Lucifer started sputtering and coughing. “Easy, tiger,” Michael instructed, his free hand cupping Lucifer’s cheek. “Breathe.”

The blond tried again, this time successfully, and Michael watched as the embers of the cigarette glowed brightly before dimming down. Lucifer took the cigarette from Michael’s fingers and held his breath, tilted his head back, and closed his eyes. A beat, then another, and then Lucifer exhaled, his face shrouded in a mixed cloud of smoke and hot breath hitting cold air.

As Lucifer relaxed, so did Michael. He quickly tugged the last cigarette from the carton and lit up, pulling a drag from his own to calm his rapidly beating heart. He felt weak fingers tug at the cuff of his coat, and he turned his wrist to catch shaking fingers in his own. It was okay. He hadn’t lost Lucifer again, not yet. He hadn’t lost him.

They sat in silence for several minutes, doing nothing but smoking until the cigarettes were extinguished, before Michael found his voice again. It was weak.

“Alright?”

Lucifer shook his head. “N-No,” he croaked, voice even weaker than Michael’s. He sounded so broken, and Michael wondered if he was too late, if his baby brother was irreparable. “I…I’m pathetic, a-aren’t I?”

No. No, never, not now. He’d never be pathetic.

“Don’t lie to me; that was withdrawal, wasn’t it?”

He didn’t answer.

“Luce, please. Those are serious, you need to be honest with me.”

Silence.

“Tell me what you need me to do, please, Lucifer—I…I’m so—” _scared_ “—worried.”

And then those eyes were on him again, those beautiful, gorgeous blue eyes, those eyes that spoke of nothing but darkness, horrific terror, brokenness. Defeat. “I need—I need _you,_ Micha,” he said, tears spilling down his cheeks. “I need an anchor, I-I…I need you to be that anchor. Please, please Micha—don’t abandon me, please…”

Michael’s reaction was without thought, pure instinct. He pulled Lucifer tightly into his arms, refusing to let go, refusing to ever abandon him again. This was progress, right? Lucifer was asking for help, asking for stability. He wouldn’t abandon him again.

He weaved his hands into blond hair, and it _was_ as silky as it looked. He felt Lucifer collapse into him, felt the shake of his shoulders as he sobbed. Michael kissed his head, vowing silently to be his protector, his rock, his anchor. He’d be a beacon of strength for Lucifer; he’d be the embodiment of it, so that no force on earth could make him bow and fail, not even Lucifer’s own self-destruction.

“I’ve got you, you’re okay. You’re gonna win this battle, Luce. You’re gonna win, and I’m gonna help you. I’m on your side, okay? I’ve got you.”

He would be his guardian angel.

It was several minutes still before Lucifer’s breaths completely evened out, before his racing heart beat normally, and Michael kissed him again. “Come on, let’s get you home. You need rest, Luce. This has been an exhausting day for you.”

He felt Lucifer nod, and then frail arms wrapping around his neck. For the second time that night, Michael felt like he was ten again, but he didn’t say anything. He simply conceded, and lifted Lucifer far too easily (he was so damn _light_ ).

Michael ignored the stares as he carried his baby brother back to his apartment. He ignored the pointing and the snickers, the comments of _look at that sloppy drunk_ and _homo_ and _perverts_ because none of them knew the fucking truth, none of them knew that he had a dying star in his arms, one that was once the most beautiful light in this world.

Getting into his apartment was a bit of struggle, trying to juggle his keys while simultaneously holding the blond against his chest. But he managed, and he didn’t pause once while he carried Lucifer to his guest bed.

He laid the blond down on the mattress and tugged off his boots, tossing them to the side. He only paused when his hands hovered over the fastenings of his borrowed jeans, green eyes glancing at Lucifer’s face; but the blond was fast asleep already. Michael exhaled, and worked quickly, unbuttoning and unzipping the jeans and pulling them off that tiny body. He tried to ignore all the ugly bruises on his thighs.

(He tried to ignore that mix of jealousy and revulsion.)

Michael tucked him in once he was stripped of the jeans, made sure he was comfortable, and then pushed his hair back so he could press a kiss to his forehead.

Lucifer sighed in his sleep, turned on his side, and clung to the sheets.

 

* * *

 

Michael couldn’t sleep. Even after returning to the diner to fetch Lucifer’s jacket and their food, and to tip the waitress generously after her expression of concern— “He’s sleeping now, thank you. I apologize for the disturbance.” —he thought he should be exhausted. He was, but he couldn’t sleep.

He had peeked into Lucifer’s room upon returning, breathing a sigh of relief when he saw the blond was still there, sleeping soundly, and so he stripped down to nothing but his underwear and a t-shirt and climbed into bed.

But he just couldn’t sleep. His mind was buzzing, he was so scared. Could he even do this? Could he protect Lucifer? Help him? Or would he fail?

No, no. Don’t think that. You’re not going to fail. You need to be his anchor.

He tossed and turned, trying to get comfortable, to no avail. Fuck.

It continued like this for several hours, until he glanced at the clock and saw it was nearly three in the morning. He was considering getting up and out of bed to pour himself a glass of whiskey to help him sleep, when he heard a shuffle outside his bedroom door; it cracked open, and a silhouette was there.

“…Micha?”

Lucifer’s voice was soft, and Michael sat up. “Yeah, Luce. I’m awake, what’s wrong?”

There was a beat of silence. “…I can’t sleep, I…I think I’m going t-through another withdrawal.”

No hesitation. “What do you need?”

But Lucifer didn’t answer right away, and Michael could feel the nervousness radiating off of him from across the room.

“…Luce?”

“Never mind, it’s stupid—”

“Luce.” Michael threw the sheets off, and scooted over. “Come on.”

Lucifer was still for a moment, but after a moment’s contemplation, he finally stepped into the room and padded gently over to Michael’s bed, climbing in.

The brunet waited until the younger man was comfortable before he pulled the sheets up over them and got settled; Lucifer immediately curled up next to Michael, arm splayed over his chest, and Michael wrapped an arm around Lucifer’s shoulders.

Michael was no stranger to having people in his bed; he recalled when Lucifer and Raphael and Gabriel all has nightmares and came running to his room when they were little, and he recalled how, once he left for college, he had several pretty girls who shared his bed to keep him company, to keep him warm.

He hadn’t had any girls in his bed for years, though, but he still remembered how soft their curves were, how small they felt against him. Lucifer was small, but he was hard angles and not soft curves, but he…

The boy was ungodly warm, though he shivered. Breaths hot, twitching limbs.

…Yeah, it was another withdrawal, Michael just knew. “I’ve got you,” he said, and Lucifer relaxed again. His breaths slowed, and while he was still burning, he at least managed to slip under once again.

…but he fit perfectly against his side, and Michael finally closed his eyes, and fell into a deep sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longest chapter to date, it was a monster to write.


	5. It's (Not) My Fault

Typically, Michael was early to bed, early to rise. Even if he wasn’t early to bed, such as the previous night, he still managed to wake before the sun spilled over the horizon; it was habit. He liked to start his mornings in the still, blue-tinted quiet. He liked the peace, the calm, the serenity. He liked being able to adjust his senses to the tune of the rising sun.

Today was different. Today, the sun spilling into his eyelids woke Michael, forcing him from his deep and peaceful slumber. He couldn’t remember the last time he had slept so good, couldn’t remember the last time he didn’t _want_ to wake up or get out of bed, and it was all because he had in his arms a soundly sleeping, fragile, warm body. He opened his eyes slowly and breathed gently; the last thing he wanted was to wake Lucifer.

Michael stared down at the young blond and contented himself with watching how his shoulders and chest rose and fell with each rhythmic breath he took. He looked so serene and peaceful, even with the dark circles and broken capillaries beneath his sunken eyes. Blond lashes kissed his sallow cheeks, pale eyebrows relaxed and not knitted together for once.

Lucifer’s hand was weakly grasping Michael’s t-shirt, a leg between his own, lips parted and halfway pressed to the older man’s chest.

It was serene. And Michael didn’t know if he could pry away; holding his brother in his arms felt so damn natural, unlike when he had engaged in one-night stands and held girls in his arms more so because he felt it was his duty to do just that. A thumb slowly stroked back and forth over Lucifer’s shoulder, and soon, that hand slid up his neck, down the curve of his jaw. His thumb settled gently on the blond’s bottom lip; Michael could feel his brother’s hot breath wash over the sensitive skin of his fingertips.

He supposed now was as good a time as any to maneuver his way out of Lucifer’s grasp.

Granted, it was a little difficult, but Michael eventually managed to slide out of bed without disturbing the sleeping blond. He stood, as Lucifer curled into the warm spot where Michael’s body once lay. His little brother sighed, appeared content, and Michael turned on his heel and quietly exited the room, heart racing.

What was wrong with him?

A distraction was needed. He had to focus on something other than Lucifer, needed to get him out of his head.

Breakfast. Michael’s stomach gave a churning growl, and he muttered a “Yes, I know,” as he stepped into the tiny kitchen. Immediately, he began to brew a pot of coffee, and then he opened the fridge to see what he had.

Milk, orange juice, chardonnay. Eggs, ginger dressing, lemon juice. A bag of spinach, some tomatoes on the vine, carrots, onion, celery. Apples, oranges, blueberries, bananas. A steak, a tub of shredded pre-cooked chicken, turkey and ham slices, bacon. A block of feta cheese and a large tub of Greek yogurt.

Right, an omelet it was. Michael pulled out the milk, eggs, and spinach, one of the tomatoes, the chicken, and the block of cheese. Healthy and delicious.

He remained quiet as he scavenged for the large bowl at the back of his cupboard, and as he pulled out the silicone-coated whisk from his cooking utensils drawer. Cutting board, tomato knife. Michael diced the fruit up into even bites and then set it aside. He cracked four eggs into the bowl (separating the yolks from two of them and letting the white drip down, and tossing the rest in the trash), added a pinch of salt and a grind of pepper and a splash of milk, before whisking it together.

The coffee was smelling delicious; he almost hated to compete with its perfect scent by heating up a frying pan with a drizzle of olive oil, but his stomach reminded him why it was a great idea to make that omelet anyway.

Once the pan was hot, Michael poured half of the egg mixture into it, and gently pushed the edged toward the center. The coffee maker chimed, and he stopped what he was doing to pour himself a cup. Inhale…mmm. Yes, he was awake now. He took a slow sip, cherishing the perfectly smooth brew as it warmed his body.

Michael set the mug down after another sip. He continued to cook the egg until he saw it was no longer raw, and then he added half a handful of spinach, chicken, and half the diced tomato on one side. He crumbled the feta on top, folded it in half, and flipped it easily, letting the ingredients meld together as he went to grab a plate. He nearly jumped when he heard a voice behind him.

“That smells really good.”

He turned to look at Lucifer, the boy yawning and looking like he quite literally rolled out of bed. He was rubbing sleep from his eyes, his borrowed sweater rumpled and his hair an absolute mess.

“My take on a Greek style omelet. Would you like one?”

Lucifer nodded, leaning up against the counter. “Yes please.”

“Coffee?”

“Only if you have milk and sugar.”

“I have milk. Might have to dig through the cupboard for sugar, though…” Michael slid the omelet onto the plate.

“Alright. Thank you, Micha,” Lucifer said, yawning again as he nudged into the kitchen.

Michael blinked when Lucifer raised his arms to open the cupboard, and a small flash of his back became visible. “Hey, go sit down. I’ve got it. Take this with you, though.” He handed the blond the steaming omelet, then shooed him away; he grabbed another mug from the cupboard and brought it and the coffee pot and a hot pad over to Lucifer. He set them down, grabbed the jug of milk from the fridge again, and then dug through his spice cabinet to find the hardly-ever-touched jar of sugar in the back. He brought those over as well.

“How is it?”

“Very good, Micha,” Lucifer praised around a bite of omelet, humming happily. He hadn’t had a home-cooked meal this good in…he forgot how long. “It’s perfect.”

The brunet couldn’t help but swell up with pride as he made the second omelet for himself. “It’s very easy. I could teach you some time.”

Lucifer snorted, heaping unhealthy amounts of sugar into his mug, then filling it up practically half-way with milk. “I think I’d prefer to just have you cook for me all the time, darling.”

Michael flushed. “Lucifer, what on God’s good green earth are you doing to that coffee?”

The blond stared up at Michael as he topped off his sugary milk mixture with coffee. “Uh…making it drinkable.”

“That’s not coffee anymore, that’s candy. You’re going to get so many cavities!”

“I know good oral hygiene, Michael,” Lucifer said, rolling his eyes. “Besides, after constantly swallowing bitter things, I think I get to enjoy sweet things.”

“Really? Not at the dinner table, Luce. That’s totally inappropriate.”

“Hey, _I_ didn’t say anything. You’re the one with the dirty mind. Immediately jumping to me swallowing sperm…”

“Lucifer!”

The blond smirked, taking a sip of his candied coffee. “What?”

Unbelievable. This was going to be so damn difficult; Lucifer, apparently, loved to antagonize him. Fine, two could play at this game.

“You know what? While we’re on this topic, when was the last time you’ve been to the doctor?”

Lucifer balked. Got him, Michael thought.

“Uh, criminal, Michael? And no health insurance. Obviously I haven’t been since I was thirteen.”

Turned on him. Fuck. “…So you’re telling me you’ve been engaging in acts of prostitution without any checkups? Lucifer, I may not approve of your lifestyle choices, but that’s very unhealthy. What if you have—“

“HIV? AIDS? Other STDs? Look, I’m not stupid; I don’t have unprotected sex with my rando clients. I always make them wear condoms, or use dental dams in the case of a female client. Now, my regulars? They wanna fuck with no protection, they have to get tested. Every time.”

“And you? How often do you get tested?”

“Every month.”

“And?”

“Clean. Guess this whore has been blessed by God, huh?”

“Lucifer,” Michael started, a frown on his face. “Don’t refer to yourself as a whore.”

“Why? That’s what I am.”

The brunet shook his head. “That’s what you were. You’re not a whore, Luce. Not anymore.”

Lucifer shrugged, clearly not fazed.

“Anyway, I still want you to get tested. A full check-up, just to make sure you _are_ healthy.”

“If I’m not?”

“We get you treated,” Michael said nonchalantly. “I’m not going to let you die slowly, you hear?”

Lucifer stared at his brother, but nodded, returning to his breakfast.

“Good. I’ll get you a doctor’s appointment scheduled, as well as a dentist’s appointment. Don’t worry about costs, okay? I’ll figure out how to cover it.”

The blond looked up again as Michael sat down with his own plate and mug of coffee, an idea suddenly overcoming him. “Look, Michael, I…appreciate you wanting to help me out so bad, but I also don’t want to be a strain on your finances. Just…take the money I have right now. There’s two-thousand in my backpack.”

Michael paused, his fork halfway to his mouth. “Two-thousand?”

“Dollars. I’m not exactly cheap, and one of my regular clients keeps trying to—er, _kept_ trying—to buy me off Azazel. But Azazel didn’t want to get rid of me; I made him too much money.”

“Lucifer, I—no, I don’t want to take your money—”

“Michael, please,” Lucifer said, voice exasperated. “Don't argue me on this one, okay? Just take it; besides, it’ll be safer in your hands than in mine.”

He stared at his brother, dread filling his heart when he heard those words. Lucifer wouldn’t actually use his money to…to buy drugs, would he?

…He would. Michael nodded weakly. “Alright, thank you.”

Lucifer waved his hand dismissively, an apathetic mood seeming to wash over him. No good, Michael didn’t like that. He wanted to see Lucifer smiling and laughing, not thinking self-deprecating thoughts. He wanted Lucifer to be happy.

This needed to change. So Michael cleared his throat and offered a smile. “How about after I shower, we go get you some new clothes?”

“Don’t you have school? Or work?”

Michael shook his head. “No school or work on Sunday.”

Finally, a smile again. Michael felt like a king.

“Okay,” Lucifer conceded, taking another bite of omelet. “I’d like that.”

“You can create your own style again,” Michael added, leaning forward a bit. “Just like Raphael. I took her shopping several years ago—”

“Wait, back up. Her?”

Michael raised an eyebrow. “…Yes?”

“Our…brother? Raphael?”

Oh. Right, Lucifer wouldn’t know about that. Michael flushed. How stupid of him to make such a blunder!

“Sister. Raphael came out as trans about a year after you…after you left. So I took her shopping for a new wardrobe. She started taking HRT a year after that.”

Lucifer blinked. “Oh. I didn’t know, obviously.” He paused. Then his smile grew wider. “I’m happy for her. I imagine she’s beautiful?”

Michael mirrored the smile and nodded. “Very.” _Just as beautiful as you._ “She’s still terrifying and cruel sometimes, though.”

A laugh spilled forth. _Good._ “She always was that way, wasn’t she? So serious all the time. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her without a scowl on her face.”

Michael laughed as well. Lucifer grinned.

“And Gabe? How’s he?”

“Weird. He’s kind of a nerd; he plays Runescape and watches anime and those weird Japanese game shows. I have no idea how he managed to get a girlfriend, and a cute one at that!”

“Gabe has a girlfriend?!”

“Yeah, her name is Kali. Very pretty young lady.”

“…But he’s like, twelve.”

“Close. Eleven.”

Lucifer pulled a face. “That’s even worse than I thought! How does an eleven year old nerd have a girlfriend?!”

Michael grinned and shrugged. “Maybe it’s because of all that ‘swag’ those youngsters got.”

“Please never say the word ‘swag’ again.”

This was good. They were laughing as they enjoyed their breakfast, Lucifer was smiling, he was happy. Michael had succeeded in helping his brother, and for a moment, he could almost pretend like nothing bad had ever come between them. They were just two brothers, incredibly close, who never spent a day apart. Who were never separated. In this moment, Michael could pretend that Lucifer had never said “I hate you” all those years ago.

Michael finished his breakfast, and stood up and grabbed his plate to set it in the sink. “Could you rinse the dishes, Luce, and put them in the dishwasher?”

“Do they miss me?”

The question caught him off guard. But Michael knew what Lucifer was asking. He would be lying if he said he wasn’t expecting it eventually.

“They do. Terribly so.” Michael looked up at Lucifer, and the blond looked so distressed again. Hopeful, but distressed. “…Raphael acted like she wasn’t affected. But there were plenty of times where I couldn’t find her, only to find she had passed out in your room, at the foot of the bed.

“Gabriel started acting out. He got angry, threatening to run away. We sent him to stay with Uncle Odin for a couple months.”

Lucifer was silent and still for a moment, and then he nodded. “…And Dad?”

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “He…started drinking more. But I can’t tell you anything other than that, because I simply don’t know.”

“Do you think he does?”

“Miss you? I…I like to think so. You were his favorite, Luce. You don’t just go from being someone’s favorite, to someone who doesn’t matter at all. You don’t go from loving someone with all your heart to not even caring about them. I’m sure he cares about you. I’m sure he misses you.”

“Yeah, well,” Lucifer snorted, “I don’t care about him, and I sure as hell don’t miss him. Fucking bastard—”

“Language.”

“—abandoned me when I needed him most!”

“Lucifer—”

He looked like he was about to cry again. Michael made a mental note to schedule him a psychiatric appointment in addition to the physical check-up. These mood swings were worrying him.

“I don’t believe for one second that he misses me,” his voice wobbled. “He gets to continue on with his life, blissfully ignorant to the fucking damage he caused me. He doesn’t fucking deserve that while I suffer!”

“Luce!” Michael found his way to his brother’s side, warm hands cupping his face again. “You’re okay, you’re alright. I’ve got you.”

“He doesn’t miss me!”

“So what? So what if he doesn’t miss you, Luce? It’s his fucking loss, then. You’re worth so much more than what one man thinks of you. You’re worth more than the approval of someone whose affections for you are naught.”

The tears fell. “I just want him to love me!”

“ _I_ love you, Luce. I love you with all my heart. And I will love you enough to make up for your perception of our father’s lack of it, y’hear?”

Lucifer nodded, but the tears kept flowing. Michael was frustrated, but not at his baby brother. He was frustrated in his own inability to keep the tears away for good. He wiped at them with the pads of his thumbs, and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

“I love you, Luce. I love you.”

That seemed to break him. Lucifer slid out of the chair, and Michael followed his little brother to the floor as he collapsed in a heaping mess of tears. Lucifer wound his arms around Michael’s neck, and Michael pulled him into his lap. Lucifer cried into his shoulder. Michael rubbed his back.

Fragile. Small. Breakable. He had to protect him. “Shh, I got you, Luce. I got you, you’re okay. I love you.”

Thin legs wrapped around his hips as Lucifer clung tightly to him.

“M-Micha, I don’t—“ he hiccupped. “—I don’t like this, b-being sober! I’m so fucking unhappy!”

“You’re not used to it, that’s all. You’ve gotten dependant on drugs to make you happy. They’re not the only things that can make you happy, Luce.”

“It’s impossible! I feel like I’m drowning!”

“Well, it’s a good thing I took a lifeguard class last summer then, yeah?”

There was a tiny choke. A laugh within a sob.

“I won’t let you drown. I won’t let you cave into drugs again, either. I’ll make you happy, Luce. I promise.”

They sat there, for what surely must’ve felt like hours to Lucifer. Michael didn’t care. He’d sit for an eternity, if that was how long it took for Lucifer to calm down again.

He wondered how long it had been since anyone had last shown Lucifer even an ounce of genuine love, how long it had been since anyone held him, like he was the most precious thing in the world. Michael wondered if…if _he_ was the last one to do so. He wanted to ask, but he already knew the answer. He was simply scared to hear it confirmed, and his heart broke because of it. Was Lucifer irreparable because of him? Michael squeezed his eyes shut, one wand weaving into his brother’s soft hair to hold him close, the other stroking up and down his bony spine.

Lucifer was so light. It felt as if…as if a child was sitting in his lap.

(He _is_ a child.)

Almost eighteen, but he felt more like he was eight. It was terrifying, and Michael hoped he could help Lucifer enough. He hoped it wasn’t too late to save him.

Still, Lucifer shook. Still, Michael refused to move away. He buried his nose in the halo of golden hair, inhaled. He smelled like honey and cinnamon. Like his own shampoo. It didn’t suit him (as much as Michael oddly liked the idea of Lucifer smelling like him); he thought Lucifer should smell more like crisp morning air, a gentle sea-breeze passing through floating glaciers. He should smell like pine, and wintergreen, the perfect compliment to his fire and honey and cinnamon.

A shuddering breath came from Lucifer’s frail body, and Michael lifted his head in time with the blond. Blue eyes rimmed with pink stared in his green ones.

“Sorry, Micha,” he said, his voice rough. “I…I think I was having another withdrawal, or s-something.”

“That’s entirely possible, Luce.”

The blond sniffled, and then turned his gaze down again, tears barely being held back. “I-I just don’t know how to do this. Deal with my emotions. I…I just use drugs and ignore them. Being sober is hard.”

“I never said it would be easy,” Michael reassured, combing his fingers through Lucifer’s hair. “But this has to be done. You can’t stop fighting, no matter how hard it gets. You _will_ have to stand face-to-face with all your emotions and learn how to deal with them accordingly. That will be what helps you the most, Lucifer; it will be when you can defeat your demons on your own, without drugs.”

“What if I’m not strong enough?”

“Don’t even think that. That sets you up to fail, you hear? Just keep telling yourself, ‘I _will_ win.’”

Lucifer looked up at Michael again, and Michael’s heart stuttered. Melancholic eyes, flushed cheeks, wet, parted lips. He could’ve sworn Lucifer leaned forward an inch, and for a moment, he thought he was going to be kissed.

But he stood—no, stupid Michael! He’s your fucking brother for Pete’s sake, of course it wasn’t going to be a kiss—and extended a hand to him. “G-Go shower. I’m okay now, I’ll take care of the dishes and get dressed.”

Michael took his brother’s hand and nodded as he stood. “A little bit of retail therapy will make you feel better, I think. I’ll hurry.”

And with that, he turned on his heel to head to the bathroom and get ready.

…What the hell was wrong with him?

 

* * *

 

“That color looks good on you,” Michael said, trying to act nonchalant in his compliment. But really, Lucifer _did_ look great in olive drab.

“You think so?” He tucked the incredibly soft t-shirt into a pair of near-perfectly fitting Levi’s, belted for now, so he could grow into them. “I think this is too…militaristic. I liked the pink better.”

“If you want the pink, we can get the pink. But I do think this color is good on you.”

Lucifer turned to Michael, his thumbs tucked into his front pockets. He smirked. “You only like it because you’re wearing the same color.”

The brunet flushed. “It’s a universally flattering color, Luce. Fine, take it off.”

“We can get it. And we can get the pink.”

“Okay okay okay, take it off.”

“Jeez, take me out to dinner first…”

“I took you out for dinner last night,” Michael clapped back, crossing his arms. “You bolted.”

“Guess the first date didn’t go so good,” Lucifer said, before he disappeared into the changing room again. “It’s not you, it’s me!”

Michael rolled his eyes to hide just how much his heart was beating.

 

* * *

 

Overall, it was a successful shopping day; Lucifer had gotten three pairs of jeans, three short-sleeved t-shirts and three long-sleeved ones, two button-ups, two sweaters, a pair of shoes, and a pair of boots. Not the most extensive wardrobe, but Lucifer said it was all he needed.

(Michael wondered if this was the most clothing Lucifer owned at one time.)

He was happy. He was happy and smiling and folding his new clothes up with a look of pride on his face, excited because he couldn’t wait to wear them.

(It made Michael want to shower him in gifts.)

Dinner was leftovers (finally, he got his spaghetti and he was, again, incredibly happy), and Lucifer took another shower and slipped on a fresh pair of boxer briefs, slipped on that old sweater Michael lent him.

It was a lazy evening. The pair sat together on the small couch and watched TV, adding their own commentary to the shows and laughing at the absurdity of some of the people (“Yeah, Barbara, of _course_ you want open concept in the city for a max budget of $150k.”), and once more, Michael felt like maybe, just _maybe_ , everything would actually be okay.

Lucifer started dozing off, his body heavy and leaning to the side; Michael only knew the blond was knocked out when he felt a gentle thump against his shoulder, and he looked over only to find a crown of golden hair.

Ever so carefully, he lifted the seventeen-year old into his arms, and carried him to his bedroom.

On the TV, the newscaster addressed the viewers. “Several members of the notorious Masters crime family were apprehended last night, including patriarch Azazel Masters, who was wanted on counts of drug dealing, kidnapping, and human trafficking. Still missing are his brother, Alistair Masters, and one of kids he is thought to have trafficked, Lucifer Shurley. If you have any information on the whereabouts of either of these persons, the CPD urges you to call this hotline. More at 10. Next up, tips on how to stay warm as this winter only continues to get more brutal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, I want to apologize for how long it took to get this chapter out, and for how mediocre it is in correlation to how long it took me to get this chapter out.  
> I've been struggling with depression this past month, and that, coupled with a full work schedule and writers block, does not make for a productive mindset for writing. It is not an excuse, but an explanation, so I just wanted to apologize for the wait. I'm hoping to get back on track soon and return to aiming for a chapter a week, or at least bi-monthly.  
> Thank you all for your patience.


	6. (Not) A Failure

“You have my phone number logged into your cell, right?”

Lucifer hummed tiredly in affirmation, rubbing at sleep-crusted eyes.

“Good. Sorry that I couldn’t make breakfast this morning, woke up late. But there’s some Honey Nut Cheerios in the bottom cupboard. You can have a bowl, or feel free to help yourself to cooking something. The fridge is at your disposal—just be sure to clean up after yourself.”

A yawn, and a half-conscious “mm-hmm.” Michael ruffled the blond’s hair and bent over the bed to kiss his forehead.

“I left a pack of cigarettes on the counter. For withdrawals only, please. If you’re having one and you can’t calm down, step outside and smoke and _call me._ ”

“’Will.”

“Thank you, Luce. I’ll see you later tonight, okay? Go back to sleep.”

“G’night Micha,” came the sleepy reply, as Lucifer clutched at his blankets and turned to his side again, curling in tightly.

Within seconds, he was fast asleep again, his breathing even and gentle, pink mouth slightly agape and his hair a mess. His eyelashes cast soft shadows upon his cheeks, and he looked so serene and at peace…Michael was a bit envious. Of Lucifer, of those eyelashes. He wished it was his fingers caressing the tops of those cheeks instead.

But Michael smiled, and quietly left the room. “Goodnight, Luce.”

It was 7:00AM, class started in 90 minutes. No student in their right mind would want to have such early classes, but Michael was an exceptional over-achiever, as well as an exceptional master strategist. After all, he might be tired, but so was his professor; and so, he gained her favor, and with it flexibility with deadlines by bringing his professor a coffee every morning. And thank God for that; with his workload, he needed the flexibility.

So he did as he normally did, and Michael stopped by the coffee shop nearby his campus after he got off the bus. Two coffees: one black, one with a splash of cream. He thanked the cashier as he paid him, toting the drink caddy in one hand as he made his way to that first class.

He gave his professor her coffee, she thanked him. Just like every day he had this class. He sat down at his unassigned assigned seat. Just as he would. Opened his textbook, got his notes ready, but then he paused. Something wasn’t right, was it?

Michael, for the first time, had difficulty focusing. His notes were jumbled and unorganized, nowhere near as neat at they normally were. The PowerPoint slides were gibberish, and no matter how much he stared at them, they refused to make any sort of sense. It was an entirely different language, the words foreign and his professor’s speech indecipherable.

He tapped his pen on the desk, eyebrows furrowing together. He couldn’t concentrate, eyes darting to the whiteboard where his professor had previously noted the chapter they were covering. He quickly wrote that down and circled it. He’d have to study up later, go online at home and go through the PowerPoint slides on his own.

Home. His mind wandered home as he wondered how Lucifer was, wondered if those blond eyelashes were still kissing those pale cheeks.

* * *

He wasn’t woken by the sunlight filtering through the curtains of his room at 10am, nor was he woken by the sounds of doors in the nearby building hallway opening and closing as tenants left for work or school or errands. He didn’t wake because he was cold, or because he was too hot, or because he was hungry and wanted something to eat.

No. Rather, Lucifer blinked open bleary eyes because he heard a loud buzzing right next to his ear. His phone. Someone was calling him.

He tilted the screen towards his face and tried to process its image.

**$ Tall Dark Handsome $**  
Mobile

Lucifer accepted the call and croaked out, “Hello?”

There was a pause, and then a short chuckle. “Did you just get up?”

Lucifer hummed. “You woke me.”

Another laugh, and what sounded like a sigh of relief. “So I take it you’re not in jail. Good. I got worried when I saw the news; I wouldn’t know what I would do if I didn’t have access to my princess.”

“You’d bail me out,” the blond said assuredly, stretching his legs toward the bottom of the bed. “And then you’d take me home, fuck me, keep me. I’ve got you all figured out.”

Dick Roman laughed again. “Do you really think I’d waste my money on a whore?”

The words stung a little bit, but Lucifer shrugged it off. He knew Richard was lying. He just wanted to get a rise out of him. “You waste your money on me twice a month. I’m certain you’d jump at the opportunity to pay one more fee to keep me as yours.”

A hum.

“Besides, you called me. Clearly you care.”

“Where are you, princess?”

Lucifer was a bit taken aback by the sudden change in subject, but he went with it. “Not in jail.”

“Obviously.”

“I’m safe. Not on the street.”

“Yes, but where? Let me come get you; I can provide more safety and security for you than wherever it is you may be.”

Lucifer fidgeted, a little more awake now. “I’m…”

This was his opportunity. He could start living a life of luxury, he wouldn’t have to worry about finding a job or being homeless once Michael got sick of him. He could live with a rich man, be that man’s trophy “wife” and his only payment would be bending over for him.

He could get drugs again, if he wanted.

Lucifer wet his lips at the prospect, and he just about divulged the information of his whereabouts, but he suddenly halted.

The mere thought of breaking Michael’s heart crushed him, and despite his anger toward his older brother, he didn’t want to disappoint him. He wanted Michael to be proud of him, he wanted Michael to smile at him and tell him how _good_ he was. So Lucifer bit his lip.

“I-I’m done with that life, Richard.”

A short laugh. “What life?”

“Being a whore? I’m…I’m sorry, Richard. But this is my only chance to get better. I…I don’t want to be a whore.”

It was the truth, at least. He never did want to be a whore. He just wanted the drugs, he never wanted to sell his body. And sure, maybe he was giving up the opportunity to have his drugs ever again, but…it was worth it, to not be someone’s fucking bitch.

He may regret his decision, but right now, his want to get out of the business was greater than his need for heroin.

“You’re so full of shit, Lucifer.”

“Rich—”

“ _Sir,_ ” he snapped.

“Sir,” Lucifer immediately corrected. “I-I mean it, I don’t want to be—”

He was interrupted again. “It doesn’t matter if you don’t want to be a whore, Lucifer. That’s what you _are,_ it’s what you always _will_ be. You’re fooling yourself if you think you can escape it.”

Lucifer sat up, his eyebrows knitting together as tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. “You’re wrong.”

A burst of laughter. “ _I’m_ wrong? You’re a high-school drop out, a junkie with a pretty face and a pretty ass. You have no experience with any job other than sex work. Face reality, Lucifer. You’re a whore, and you’re only good at being a whore, at being a human cock-sleeve, at taking orders from the people who own you. You think you can break away from it all, but you can’t. You have no free will; you will always succumb to the will of those holding your leash.”

Angry tears rolled down his cheeks, his voice shaking as he showed defiance once again. “I’m no one’s bitch, Richard! I’m—”

“ _Sir._ ”

“I’m a human being!”

“And a slave to fate. Tell me, Lucifer; do you see yourself living past the age of…let’s say…twenty-five? I’m feeling generous.”

“I—why does that matter?”

“Answer the fucking question. Twenty-five.”

Lucifer shook, his entire body trembling. Did he? He stretched his mind, tried to picture every future possibility for himself. Twenty-five. That gave him just a little over seven years of life; too many to say for sure. So much could happen in that time, who was to say he’d actually get his life together by then? It was far more plausible that he’d overdose, or get shot up, or just kill his own self because if he didn’t have drugs, he wasn’t happy. He had already tried, twice. Who’s to say he wouldn’t try again if he got clean and tried to stay clean?

“ _Lucifer._ ”

“N-No, sir.”

“And why don’t you?”

“B-Because I…I’m—”

“Because you’re a whore.”

A sob fell from Lucifer’s lips. He felt so broken down, defeated. He suddenly doubted himself. Could he do this? Or was he being spoon-fed countless lies, saying that he _could_ succeed?

“Shh…shh, princess,” Dick cooed. “It’s okay. You’re not worthless at all. You are of great value to me, you know? You make me so happy. Tell me where you are, so I can come get you, and wipe away your tears.”

Lucifer hiccupped, rubbing angrily at his eyes. “I-I’m sorry, sir, I—I can't. I don’t want to. Please, please don’t be mad at me!”

“Shh, princess. It’s okay. I’m not mad, alright? I won’t come get you now, if that will calm you down. But let me at least help you, okay?”

He nodded, small gasping sobs bubbling forth from his chest.

“Princess?”

“Y-Yes sir.”

“Good, good. Are you alone right now?”

“Yes sir.”

Richard hummed. “And are you still in bed?”

“Y-Yes sir. I’m sitting.”

“Lay down and put me on speaker.”

Lucifer immediately did what he was told, and set the phone on his bedside table. He lied down on his side, facing it, and sniffled.

“What are you wearing, princess?” Richard Roman’s voice echoed slightly in the room, and Lucifer closed his eyes, trying to stop the flow of tears.

“Just u-underwear and a sweater.”

He heard the man lean back in what he assumed was a leather chair, shuffling in the background. A clink, and more fumbling. “You must look absolutely cute right now. Uncharacteristically innocent, I assume. I wish I could see you, but I suppose I just have to…imagine myself there, between your pale legs.”

Lucifer turned onto his back, and slung an arm over his eyes.

“My hands would run up your thighs, tickle beneath the hem of your sweater. You’d be so flustered, wouldn’t you? A new game you’re playing—shy, coy, sweet, innocent…—I think I’d like it. You’d act like a little virgin but spread your legs wide for me the moment I’d start to rub my thumbs over your perky nipples.”

He didn’t mean for it to happen; a small, pinched moan escaped his chest, and Lucifer pressed his thighs together, a hand slipping beneath his sweater and settling on his warm tummy.

“Don’t hold back, princess. You know how much I love hearing you moan,” Dick encouraged. “I’d make you go crazy, shove your cute sweater up so that I could actually see your pretty, pale skin, and see how rosy and erect your nipples would be. I’d pinch them, you’d squirm, I’d tell you how I’d love to see you squirming and writhing like that on my cock.”

Lucifer gasped, and lifted his hips in the air. His hand trailed up to his chest, pinched one of his nipples, just like Dick was saying he’d do. He imagined Dick was actually there, making him feel good. Touching him. Fucking him.

There was a groan. “You’d rock yourself on my lap, desperate already. You’d feel my bulge, feel how much you turn me on. All that warm heat, like fucking drugs to you. You’d—”

“R-Richard, _please,_ ” Lucifer begged.

A dark chuckle. “…Exactly that. You’d _beg_ for my cock, panting and desperate to have me fill you up. And because I can’t say no to such a cute face, I’d oblige.” He paused. “Take off your underwear.”

Lucifer immediately followed the demand, and tossed the boxer briefs to the side after he got his skinny legs out of them.

“Put two fingers in your mouth and suck on them. Pretend they’re mine.”

_Pretend they’re mine._

_Lucifer sucked on the two digits after guiding them to his mouth. He tongue laved around them, swirling, slicking them up with spit and giving them the same amount of attention he’d give Richard’s cock. He moaned around them, desperate to arouse his lover, to earn his reward._

_Dick Roman groaned, continued to pinch at Lucifer’s nipples and continued to buck his hips into the curve of the blond’s ass._

“So good, princess…God, such a perfect little slut.”

_The fingers were heavy on his tongue, but Lucifer didn’t mind, nor did he care. He moaned, popping off the digits a mere moment later, his breaths heavy and panting._

“Please…”

This seemed to satisfy Richard, and he hummed. His voice was low and deep and gravelly, and it sent shivers up Lucifer’s spine.

“Alright, princess. Fuck yourself on my fingers. Don’t you fucking touch yourself though; you’re only allowed to come from my fingers up your pretty little ass.”

“Yes sir—thank you, sir.” Lucifer reached down between his legs and exhaled slowly as he pushed the digits past the tight ring of muscle.

_Richard fucked him slow at first, driving him mad, but picked up his pace when Lucifer’s soft keens spurred him on. Keens turned into gasps, and gasps turned into moans. The man pumped those fingers, tips massaging Lucifer’s inner walls and making him squirm._

“B-beautiful,” he stuttered, and Lucifer wondered if, based on his breathless words, the man was jacking off.

He wouldn’t know for sure, though. Lucifer didn’t want to open his eyes and break the illusion.

_He could almost smell the man’s expensive cologne. Dark, musky, spicy…it almost smelled like the earth, almost like smoke. Though his eyes were squeezed shut, he could picture Dick right above him, staring down at him with dark eyes and a lustful expression._

_Lucifer bit his lip, a fist grabbing at the sheets as he writhed on the bed, desperately trying to get those fingers deeper. And then they brushed against his prostate, and Lucifer bucked his hip, a loud gasp spilling forth._

“T-there! There, please—”

“You want my fingers there, princess? Alright, since you’ve been so good, I’ll let you have it.”

_Fingers pressed hard against his prostate, and Lucifer arched his back, a lewd moan dripping from his lips. He was fucked, hard and fast, fingers pressing against that sweet little spot and driving him mad. He didn’t know if he would last much longer. Dick Roman grinned toothily, looking every bit the predator he was._

“Come for me, princess. You’ve been so good, come for me.”

_He did, and he came with a cry, hips thrusting off the bed into the air. His body spasmed, but he continued to fuck himself on those fingers, riding out his orgasm._

“So good…”

_He could almost smell him. Dark, musky, spicy—…no. Spicy, yes, but…it was warm. Like cinnamon and honey. Chocolate eyes were green. Predatory gaze was gone and instead warm and gentle and caring._

_Familiar, lush lips trembled. “So good.”_

Lucifer’s eyes snapped open, and he was met with the sight of a plain ceiling.

“Take pictures for me, princess,” Dick Roman said over the phone, sounding sexed out. “Send them to me. I want a picture of you every single day, do you hear?”

His heart was beating wildly. What the fuck just happened? He—no, he needed a shower. He needed to not think about this.

” _Lucifer._ ”

“Y-Yes sir,” he said, sitting up as he withdrew his fingers. “Every day. I-I promise.”

* * *

Michael had half a mind to call into work once he was done with his classes for the day. After all, he couldn’t focus in any of them, and, if he was being truthful with himself, he found he was missing Lucifer’s company and wondering if the young man was doing all right. Did he eat? When was the last time he had a glass of water? What if he was bored? Or what if he wanted to get out?

…What if he did get out? What if someone saw him, and took him to the police? Or worse, what if Alistair got his hands on him?

His face went pale.

Was Lucifer in danger? Was it a mistake to leave him alone? What if he was having a withdrawal? What if the pack of cigarettes he left didn’t help and Lucifer ended up hurting himself?

_You told him to call you if he had a withdrawal._

That's right…he did say that, didn't he? Michael's shoulders relaxed, and he exhaled slowly, calming down from his minor panic. Lucifer was safe. And he trusted his little brother.

(He had to trust him. How could Lucifer trust Michael in return if he did not?)

So he pocketed his phone, having convinced himself things were okay, that nothing bad was happening, that he didn't need an excuse to call into work. 

Though, he suspected he wouldn't have been able to call in to begin with; he noticed immediately, upon arriving, that the precinct was busier than normal. Staff appeared simultaneously frazzled and prideful, boastful. News reporters were busy trying to get a word with anyone who would talk to them about the major apprehension of the Masters family, asking about court dates and verdict predictions. Newer interns standing like deer caught in headlights, waiting for someone to bark orders at them, even if it was the simple, menial tasks such as fetching a tired detective's coffee. 

He didn't even have time to lock up his book bag and coat before Michael felt a strong hand grip his shoulder.

"Shurley, thank God you're here," Zachariah exclaimed. "I need you, three hours ago."

Michael blinked; but immediately went into work mode. "What is it? It must be incredibly important."

Zachariah grunted. "Important? Understatement. Yet, I feel like an absolute fool. I shouldn't have brought you on that raid."

"Why do you say that? I―" he balked. "I'm not in trouble, am I?"

"That depends on how you want to classify 'trouble.' Don't worry about getting fired―that's not what's wrong. You…did you speak with Azazel Masters?"

Azazel. Michael already felt the slow burn of fury upon hearing the man's name. He would kill him, if he could get away with it, for how he broke Lucifer. "He made some lewd comments toward me when we arrived at the raid, but I didn't acknowledge him, sir."

That's older man snorted indignantly. "Explains it. He's fucking obsessed, Michael. Says he'll cooperate with us, but only if you're the one to talk with him."

His gut dropped. "What?"

"It's up to you; you're just an intern, so you have no obligation to talk to the man, Michael. But it would help us immensely if you would."

"He asked for me by name?"

"Not exactly…no. He was rather crude."

Michael paused his steps, staring at his boss with a cool expression. He didn't want to know, but he was morbidly curious. "And this led you to believe it was me he was asking for because…?"

"'I'll talk, if I can talk to that pretty dark-haired boy with the gorgeous ass. The young thing, the one who looks like he's a rich little boy in need of a new daddy.' Err…his words, not mine. He proceeded to talk about inappropriate things he wanted to do to you."

Michael looked rightfully mortified. How could one man be so disgusting? "You didn't give him my name, did you?"

"Of course not! Your safety is our priority, which is why if you do decide to speak with him, we'll have observers watching over the room and several guards standing outside the door, ready to dispatch should he try to even touch you."

If Michael was honest with himself, he really didn't want to do this. He didn't want to ever speak with Azazel; he wanted to run the other direction and never give the man the satisfaction of getting another glance from him. He wanted Azazel dead, he wanted him to rot in hell.

He could deny speaking with him, of course, and he wouldn't have to worry about losing his job. But at what cost?

"How does he intend to cooperate? We have plenty of evidence against him; we don't need a confession."

"He says he has information on his brother, Alistair. Says he can help us catch him―and as a result, Lucifer―but he refuses to spill anything unless it's to you."

Lucifer. Michael felt his gut churn. What would they do if they caught Alistair and Lucifer wasn't with him? What if they found out Michael was hiding him, or found out he was related?

…But if he didn't talk with Azazel, they might not catch Alistair, and that man was apparently a threat to Lucifer. He was terrified of the prospect of Alistair getting a hold of his little brother, forcing him back into that degenerate life. 

Michael sighed loudly, rubbing a hand over his tired face, then fingers through his hair. 

"Alright. I'll speak with him."

“Thank you Michael. But, again, I’m terribly sorry. It was poor judgment on my part to have brought you to the raid; had I not done so, you wouldn’t even be in this position. We’ll make sure you’re safe, and you’ll be seeing a nice little bonus in your paycheck as a result.”

The man nodded to show his own appreciation. “If it will help catch Alistair, I will do whatever I can. Who all will be there?"

"Myself, of course," Zachariah said, "as well as Anna. Naomi Tapping, our prosecutor, will be there too."

Michael frowned. "If our prosecutor is there, then—…"

"You're correct." The older man sighed, seemingly annoyed at the prospect as well. "Josie Sands will be there. Not happy about that—you know how she is. Total bitch."

Well, that was just wonderful. Michael would definitely need a drink after today. “…Alright, let’s just get this over with. We can gather everyone up and begin.”

* * *

The rapid succession of fingertips rapping on the wooden surface was the only other sound that filled the room, a drum beat to the steady note of humming incandescent lights. The space itself was almost intimate, but just big enough to allow a larger table to fill most of its confines. To create distance, perhaps? Azazel smirked as he turned his gaze to the sheet of two-way glass on the opposite wall. These pigs weren't dumb—he'd give them that—they were certainly smart enough to not situate him in a more private interrogation room. Protecting the pretty boy with the pretty ass. He winked to let them know he understood.

If there was one thing Azazel couldn't resist, it was attractive young men. He wanted them all, wanted to own them and make them his, wanted to completely and utterly control them. It was what made Lucifer so attractive to him in the first place; pretty young thing about to jump off a bridge and end his pathetically short life? Not a chance. Make him his, make Lucifer love him and worship him. It was almost too easy; the boy had already been broken…all Azazel had to do was piece him together exactly the way he wanted. Obedient. Loyal. Addicted. To drugs, to him, to punishment, to reward, to sex. It had been nothing short of exciting to watch that last remaining bit of defiance and hesitancy melt away into eager enthusiasm.

Raaaap. Raaaap. Raaaap. He wished he could shift into a more comfortable position, but his ankles were cuffed to the chair because of course they were. Wouldn't want him getting up and grabbing that dark-haired beauty, bending him over the table. How awkward, though—if he got hard, he wouldn't be able to hide it. He leaned his head back and groaned. 

He could remember the look of disgust on that pretty thing's face when he leered at him. Honestly, it shouldn't have gotten Azazel as excited as it did, but…there was just something about the perceived element of challenge that really got him going. He would surely attempt to assert his dominance, but Azazel wouldn't let him. He never did let anyone have power over him.

Lucifer had tried once, bless his heart; the boy had tried to run away, after only six months of being an escort. Of course, Azazel managed to catch him and drag him home, and he thought that being caught would've been enough of a deterrent for the blond. No, he talked back instead. 'I'm tired of this! You can't make me sell myself to these disgusting old men anymore!' and 'I don't fucking need you!' and 'Don't you ever touch me again!'

So he had to do what he had to do in order to discipline him. He couldn't let his angel run his mouth and disrespect him like that, so it was down to the basement he went, locked up for weeks with no human contact…just a bottle of water and a ham sandwich in a ziplock baggie thrown down the stairs once a day.

It was only when _he_ started to miss him that Azazel finally called him upstairs—said he decided he had been punished enough—and his angel came practically crawling. Blue eyes were wide and wet and he immediately started crying, begging for forgiveness, apologizing over and over and over again, promising to never betray him again. So starved for touch, he instinctively hugged one of Azazel's legs and bumped his hand with his head. He obliged, weaving his fingers through grimy hair, feeling so fucking satisfied when Lucifer stringed together a mantra of 'thank you thank you thank you thank you.'

Poor boy reeked. "Let's get you all cleaned up, Angel," he cooed, scooping the fourteen-year-old up in his arms. And Lucifer clung to him, too afraid to let go. To afraid to displease him again.

Azazel loved it.

And he loved stripping the boy down, loved stripping down himself, loved washing the grime and stink away from his boy in the hot shower, loved how reactive Lucifer was when he pulled him against his chest and fingered him open, how Lucifer pressed himself against the wall and offered up his ass with a desperate plea falling from his lips.

It was too easy. But Azazel knew that his pretty-boy cop wouldn't break as easily. He just had to push him and push him and push him until he cracked; only then could he exploit him. One crack was all he needed to make a devastating blow, to break him apart and make him his.

As if on cue, the door opened suddenly and slammed shut. There was a quick shuffling and the sound of a chair being pulled out. More shuffling, the slam of something on the table and then a small click. 

“January 11th, 2008. Time…" a pause. "7:17pm. Interrogation of Azazel Masters." Ooh, name spit out angrily. Azazel grinned. "I want to make this short, so don't waste my time. Talk. Now."

Azazel opened his eyes and sat up straight. Oh, fuck. He was even more gorgeous up close, even with a scowl on his face. Pretty green eyes, filled with fire. Full lips, perfect for sucking dick. Chiseled jaw that Azazel wanted to curl his fingers around.

"Hmm, you know my name, gorgeous, but I don't know yours. What might I call you?"

"I'm not here to exchange pleasantries," he said. "You said you would talk to me about information regarding Alistair Masters and Lucifer Shurley. So talk."

Azazel shivered. "Bossy little thing, aren't you, Gorgeous? Cute. Bet you're nice and spoiled, huh? I can spoil you, too."

He looked disgusted. "Where's Alistair?"

"What's your name?"

"I'm asking the questions. Where's Alistair?"

Azazel leaned back in his chair, looking far more smug than what ought to be allowed, especially for one in his position. "Now now, Gorgeous. You answer a question, I'll answer one. I don't want our first date to be so one-sided."

He was getting pissed. How cute, anger suited him. But Azazel wanted to see that fire extinguished, wanted to see him on his knees, begging.

Another click. Azazel's eyes finally flickered to the recording device as his gorgeous cop paused it and abruptly stood. No, this wouldn't do. 

"Alright, alright. Sit your perky ass down; I'll talk."

"Great. We'll try this again, and you will fucking listen to me, you festering sack of shit," the young man snarled. 

He couldn't help but laugh as the brunet sat back down and pressed the button again, the click resounding through the room.

"Resumed. Where is Alistair Masters?"

"I don't know. I know where he might be, big difference, see? But…if I also know my brother, I know he'll not be where he might be. Alistair isn't retarded; he knows the cops are after him, and he knows I'd rat him out for my own benefit."

"Then what's the point of this interview? Just to antagonize us and make us out to be fools?"

"Not at all, Gorgeous. You can do what you want with all this information; I'm just giving it out because I wanted to see you, and it's as good of an excuse as any." Azazel smirked, crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned back. This young man was clearly frustrated, and looked as if he was about to jump him. Oh, and he'd let it happen—he could jump his bones any time he pleased. "Alistair might be hiding out at that motel on West Archer, near the airport. If not that place, then any derelict, discount motel, really. But he really likes that place on Archer. Whirpool tubs and themed rooms.” He winked. “Or he might be hiding at any of the bars in Chicago. Hell, he might be making his way outta dodge, and stopping at truck stops along the way. Any one of those many places. It's a start, yeah?"

The dark-haired man narrowed his eyes. "These are all very different locations, Masters. I'm not convinced that you aren't pulling my leg here."

"Ah, but they all share something in common, Gorgeous." Azazel paused, watching the man gleefully. "Think. Motels. Bars. Truck stops. What type of person visits those on a daily basis?"

His prissy boy's eyebrows knotted together in thought; Azazel could see the gears turning.

"Shady people," he answered for him. "Those with no morals, who will pay a pretty penny for a pretty piece of ass. Top dollar if that pretty piece of ass was anything like yours—" another scowl. It was too easy to antagonize him. "And the immoral are attracted to each other like flies; Alistair will have his hands on Lucifer to make him money—he's got a top dollar ass just like you—so they can bail out of Chicago. My angel is good at that, you know? Good at batting his eyelashes at depraved men and women who just want a little company in their boring, miserable lives. And so perfectly obedient…my boy knows how to please, and he does it without complaint."

Oh? The dark-haired pretty boy got tenser, his jaw clenching. Interesting. "Alistair would let my angel work his magic, but he'd have to keep a tight leash, lest he try to run away. So, motels. Bars. Truck stops. All places he can keep a watchful eye on him while my angel provides service to those who pay up."

"And if he's not at any of those locations?" he asked coolly. 

"He could be anywhere, then, keeping Lucifer all to himself. Alistair always liked blonds—always found them the prettiest. That's why he married Lilith. Thought she was so pretty. But then my angel came along, so perfect and gorgeous and Alistair was immediately jealous that I had such a pretty thing all to myself. And my boy is exceptionally pretty—"

The man snarled. "He is not yours. He never was, and he never will be. Lucifer, and Ruby, and Meg, and every other child you may have exploited will never be yours. You ceased the right to call yourself a father the moment you raped these children and stole their innocence."

Clearly, he had hit a nerve. Azazel feigned a look of guiltlessness, but inside? He was ecstatic. "Me? Rape my own children? I'm hurt that you would accuse me of such things—"

"Save it for the jury, Masters. I'm going to see to it that you are convicted of all charges, mark my words."

"—I would never. Rape my children, really? Just because they're whores doesn't mean I'd ever stick my dick in them. You're mistaken, Gorgeous. I'm not into incest."

"So Ruby and Meg just up and became child prostitutes of their own free will? Lucifer? Do you really expect me to believe that?"

"Ruby was her school's slut. She made the decision to monetize her skills. Meg…she's quite adorable. She has a crush on Lucifer, I can tell, and she wanted to impress him with own sexual prowess. As for Lucifer? He's a straight up heroin junkie. He'd do anything for his next high, even if that means being the only submissive in a group orgy—"

"You exploited them!" He snarled, restating his earlier convictions, and abruptly stood up. Azazel watched with a steely expression as the man shook, pure unadulterated hatred burning in those pretty green eyes. "If you were any sort of father—and I use that term loosely—you wouldn't have let these kids sell their bodies! But you did; you let them, because you saw them as a source of income! How the hell is that not exploitation?!"

"Exploitation implies that I never gave them anything of value in return for their hard work. They gave me their money, yes, but I spoiled my kids. Gave them what they wanted—Ruby likes clothes and makeup, so I'd send her off with a wad of cash and let her go shopping. Meg wanted a laptop and drugs. She got her laptop. Lucifer—he wanted drugs, and a father. So I gave him exactly that—his daddy loves him so much. Much more than the deadbeat father that abandoned him in the first place—"

"You do not love him! You don't love anyone; you're a goddamn sociopath whose only 'love' is power and control!" He clicked the 'stop' button on the recording device and and stood up, glaring down at him with a fury comparable to God's own. "I'll personally never rest until you are burning in Hell, until all the people like you are burning in Hell."

Azazel's eyes twinkled. This was too much fun; he'd be devastated if he let it end too soon.

"We're already in Hell. Why else do you think demons walk around in broad daylight? Why do succubi and incubi tempt those too weak to resist? Why are fallen angels passed around like a delicious dish to serve? And why is it, if I may ask, that those who are supposed to bring about justice corrupt and evil? This is Hell, Gorgeous. And the devil will wrap his hands around you, too."

"Not a fucking chance."

Azazel smirked. "We’ll see.”

* * *

Michael slammed the door shut when he exited the interrogation room, his face red with anger. How anyone could look at this man and hear his words and think he was _not_ guilty was beyond him.

The guards were startled by his abrupt exiting, but they both recovered quickly and moved into action.

“Go to the meeting room,” one said, gesturing vaguely in its direction. “We’re taking Azazel back to his cell.”

He was already moving. He had to; if he stood still for too long, Michael feared he would simply break something. He feared he’d storm back into that damn room and fucking strangle Azazel, make him suffer for what he did to Lucifer, make him suffer for not feeling even an ounce of guilt for what he had done to that child.

And he dared to imply Lucifer did it all of his own accord? He was seething. Lucifer might be responsible for doing drugs in the first place, but it was Azazel who was responsible for his trafficking. The smug bastard was proud of it! Proud that he had turned three children into whores!

_He'd do anything for his next high, even if that means being the only submissive in a group orgy._

Had that happened? Michael felt his eyes burning with unshed tears. If it had, how old was Lucifer? Didn't matter, not really. He was a child, no matter what. A tear did fall, rolling down his cheek.

A _child._ He couldn’t help but picture Lucifer, maybe fourteen, fifteen? Skinny and pale and drugged up being surrounded by lecherous men, _using_ him for their own pleasure for hours and hours. Was Lucifer crying? Did he feel dirty and weak and broken?

_And so perfectly obedient…my boy knows how to please, and he does it without complaint._

Michael had to stop walking, his body shaking. No, there’s no way Lucifer would’ve _enjoyed_ it all. The thought of his little brother grinning and sober—for the time—and fully alert and doing everything he could to receive praise…it was too much. It wasn’t right, Lucifer wasn’t like that. He wouldn’t present himself like he was nothing but a hunk of meat to be consumed. Azazel was lying, he was shifting the blame to a goddamn child.

_He could be anywhere, then, keeping Lucifer all to himself. Alistair always liked blonds—always found them the prettiest._

What would've happened had Michael not run into Lucifer on that train two nights ago? Would Alistair have found him? Had him be turned into nothing but a sex slave?

…The last time he had seen Lucifer before now, he was only thirteen.  _Thirteen._ He still had baby fat on his face and innocence in his eyes; he had still blushed whenever Michael teased him about a crush he had on a girl (a senior; her name was Eve). He was still tiny, awkward, and just starting to navigate the beginning stages of puberty. 

And sick fucks wanted to stick their cocks in him and steal away everything that made him so precious. He'd never forgive them, not even after death. Because Lucifer would never be the same.

Michael angrily rubbed at his eyes with his sleeve. He hoped Naomi Tapping was a fucking stellar prosecutor.

It took a bit still for Michael to compose himself enough to look like he hadn't been crying, but once he finally managed to become presentable, he entered the meeting room where the others were surely waiting.

His eyes immediately recognized Zachariah and Anna—the only two he knew—before they darted to another red-headed woman (and if Michael was honest with himself, he found her quite attractive), and then to a stern looking woman with her soft brown hair pulled back into a practical bun.

The redheaded woman—not Anna—curled her ruby lips up into a condescending smile. 

"Michael Shurley…I hope you don't intend on ever working permanently for the police force, considering your… _appalling_  display of mannerism during the interrogation of my client. Very unprofessional."

Michael scowled and she—Josie Sands, he presumed—instantly became far less attractive to him. "Your  _client_  is a drug-dealing human trafficker and a child rapist who was making unwanted sexual advances toward me. You'll forgive me if I was short with him."

Josie laughed. "Short? You called him a 'festering sack of shit.'"

"I think that was likely the kindest thing Mr. Shurley could've called your client, Josie," said the brown-haired woman, whom Michael deduced was their prosecutor, Naomi Tapping. She rightfully looked just as put off by Josie as Michael did. "How anyone can be kind to Masters is beyond me; he's demonic, as is anyone who defends him."

"Really now, what happened to 'innocent until proven guilty?' I for one, would like the law to be fair and just, and to give everyone accused of a crime the benefit of doubt," Josie said, crossing her arms under her chest. 

"There's an overwhelming amount of evidence that points to him being guilty; I think it's fair and just to come to the conclusion that he needs to be locked up for good. I intend to bring about that exact outcome, as there is no other option. He can not roam free!"

Josie clicked her tongue. "Now, now, Naomi. I think we can all agree that Mr. Shurley conducted himself in a poor manner—"

"No."

"—and that the poor treatment of my client here at this facility could warrant some sort of leniency at court, no?"

"Absolutely not."

"Ladies, please—" Zachariah started, pressing his temples as a headache started to come on. "We're civilized beings, no need to have this angry spat."

"Mr. Shurley certainly isn't civilized. We saw the same interrogation, right? I thought he was going to start assaulting my client."

"He would've deserved it," Michael finally said, growing more irritated by the second.

Josie laughed, and gestured with her hands toward him. "See what I mean? This man," she jabbed a perfectly manicured finger at him, "is completely out of line."

"You're reaching," Naomi said curtly. 

But Josie ignored her, and faced Michael, eyes sparkling dangerously. "You say he would've deserved it, had you attacked him. He would've 'had it coming,' so to say. Is that not exactly what everyone says about victims of rape? So then, if you are  _so_  adamant about my client's guilt, why couldn't we look at his supposed victims and say 'you deserved it' for being a high-school drop out crack whore?"

"Josie, that's enough!" Zachariah snapped. 

"They're children!" Michael couldn't believe this. He couldn't believe such vile people existed in this God-forsaken world. "You'd honestly rather blame  _children_  for being preyed upon by a grown-ass man and his depraved, grown-ass siblings?! What is wrong with you?"

"Michael!" Zachariah trapped his arm. "That's enough. I won't have a brawl and a lawsuit start, you hear? Jesus Christ, I know you're passionate about this but you're starting to get out of control!"

That was enough to get him to pause. Despite his unsettling this entire case was, Michael really did need to remain calm. Azazel would win if he allowed the man to get under his skin so easily; he had to not crack.

And so with a slow exhale, he stared intently at his boss, blatantly ignoring Josie Sands. "Zach, I need to talk to you. In private."

Zachariah's face turned weary, but he sighed and nodded, expecting the worst. "Alright, let's go. Anna, make sure Josie and Naomi don't kill each other."

Anna, who up until that point had remained quiet, startled out of the wide-eyed trance she was in. Her cheeks flushed and she stuttered, "Y-yes sir!" Poor girl. 

Bad. This was bad. There was a lump in his throat as Michael made his way out of the meeting room with Zachariah in tow. He turned down a hallway and paused about midway through, deciding that that was a private enough spot to talk. His gut churned as his boss looked at him expectantly. 

"Well? What's got you worked up, Michael?"

He prayed to God that he wasn't fucking everything up. 

"I lied," Michael said quickly, out of fear he might get sick. "I lied, a little over a week ago. You pointed at Lucifer Shirley's case file and asked if we were related, and I—I said no. That was a lie."

Zachariah inhaled slowly and held his breath, but Michael could tell the man knew what he was going to say next. 

"Lucifer Shurley is…h-he's my younger brother. Was. He…my father disowned him about five years ago, and he…I was ashamed, and I didn't want my image soiled by having everyone know that my own little brother was a criminal. So I lied, and I'm sorry."

Zachariah exhaled, his lips in a tight line. He stared at Michael for what felt like an eternity, and the brunet started to feel uncomfortable, scrutinized, thought he was going to be fired on the spot before the man finally spoke. "No wonder you've been on edge. Why did you hide this information from me?"

"I didn't want to be associated with Lucifer, and risk my job, or…or risk people knowing that—" he paused, his heart dropping. Shit. He blinked rapidly. "—o-or risk people knowing that…that  _I've_  contributed to this city's problem."

"What do you mean, exactly?"

"Lucifer—none of this would've happened to him had I just talked some sense into my father, or had I been more strict with Lucifer, and had him sent off to rehab before he got tangled up in drugs. But I didn't, and Lucifer was thrown to the streets, and because of that, Azazel got his filthy hands on him and defiled an innocent child."

The balding man crossed his arms over his chest, carefully calculating his next words. "…Was the decision to throw him out just?"

"Father thought so."

"And you?"

Michael paused, and felt a drowning wave of emotion wash over his heart and soul. He suddenly felt like he was seventeen once more, sobbing as his little brother pounded at the door, screaming to be let in. 

_Open up! I’m sorry, okay?! Please, let me in, I want to come home, please! Let me talk to Dad!_

Guilt. Anguish. Regret. He wanted to open that damn door—more so than even then, knowing what he did now.

"No. I don't think it was, but I—I was father's little soldier. I obeyed him, no matter what. I tried to convince myself that it was right, to protect Raphael and Gabriel, but I…even then, I knew it was wrong."

There was silence. Deafening silence. And Michael suddenly felt the weight of his actions crushing down on his shoulders, the accusing whispers of his mind sneering that he failed Lucifer, that he shouldn't have the right to act like he was so much better than anyone else. He was a sham, fake, just a tier above Azazel because he didn't do anything to prevent this all from happening.

Michael's heart hurt, and he leaned against the wall as he started to grow weak from the dawning realization that he was part of the very problem he was trying to fix.

"…I'll put in my resignation," Michael said quietly. 

Zachariah blinked. "What? Why?"

"Why would you want someone like me working for the force? I've helped create this problem the city has."

"So what? Clearly, you've learned from your mistakes," Zachariah started, "and you're doing your best to move forward and prevent these sorts of situations from happening to other families, yes?"

Michael glumly looked up.

"We need people like you, Michael. People who know first hand the consequences of teenage drug abuse, and the effects that devastate those kids, but the families as well. You're the perfect advocate for change."

"No matter what I do though, it won't change the fact that Lucifer suffered deeply by my hand."

"No," Zachariah said firmly. "Do not blame yourself for what Masters did. He is sick and twisted, and he preyed upon he vulnerable. You didn't force him to rape a child, nor did you tempt him. He would've done this all to a different child had it not been Lucifer."

Green eyes cast down, staring at the floor as Michael tried his best to hold back tears. He felt like shit for even  _thinking_  he'd've rather all this happened to some stranger, rather than to his Lucifer. It made him no better than Azazel.

"…Perhaps you should take the rest of the day off. We'll get a memo out to everyone to keep an eye out for Alistair or Lucifer, so we can save your brother, okay? Alistair won't—"

"Lucifer is safe."

Zachariah blinked. "Pardon?"

Michael looked up at his boss, eyes wet and brimming with tears. He felt so overwhelmed. "I ran into him the night of the bust. He…he's staying with me. I took him in, and I—fuck, I should've brought him in."

Zachariah exhaled slowly. "…How old is he?"

"Seventeen, but just barely. He'll be eighteen soon."

The older man waved his hand dismissively. "Doesn't matter. He's still a minor who was forced into prostitution, so we wouldn't hold him anyway. Question him, yeah, but then either put him in a home or take him someplace safe. That's what we did with Meg. Poor girl was terrified, but we worked out a deal; she'll be in a foster home until she's eighteen, and go to rehab for free after she testifies against Azazel, Alistair, and Lilith at their trial. We could offer Lucifer the same deal—rehab—if he agrees to testify. He can stay with you, even."

Michael suddenly a wave of relief; he exhaled sharply and felt a weight being lifted off his shoulders. It couldn't be that easy, right? "What's the catch? Other than testifying, I mean."

"Nothing, Michael," Zachariah said, raising an eyebrow. "You are a great asset to us, and I wouldn't want to lose you over something so simple. You just make sure your brother sticks around long enough for the trial. We'll need both him and Meg to get those monsters as long a sentence as possible."

Michael nodded. "What about Ruby? Azazel's eldest?"

"She's…not cooperating. She's nineteen, Michael, and while we offered her the same deal as Meg—despite not being a minor—she spat in our faces and said, 'go fuck yourselves.' She's loyal to her family, almost to a fault. And she despises Meg for taking the deal."

"She's going to be tried, then?"

"For prostitution, after Azazel's trial. We'll see how that plays out. It's a mess with that one." Zachariah sighed for what was the umpteenth time that day, rubbing a hand over his balding head before he turned to Michael. He cast a weary glance. "Take an early day. Talk to Lucifer for me, and get him to agree to testifying."

"…Yes sir."

* * *

When Michael walked into his apartment, his senses were immediately assaulted; the smell of slightly burnt toast and bacon invaded his nostrils, and the sound of shuffling feet filled his ears.  He blinked as Lucifer suddenly emerged from the bathroom with a trail of steam following him, hair damp and a complete mess, his cheeks pink. He was wearing fresh pajamas that were still a bit too big for him, and with his wide eyes, he looked almost child-like. "Michael! I thought you wouldn't be home until later! I would've made you a BLT too had I known you'd be home so soon…"

That was when Michael noticed the very slight mess in the kitchen; cutting board with tomato juice on the counter, a serrated knife on top of it. Dish and dirty butter knife in the sink, and frying pan on the stove. At least the food had all been put away.

Lucifer seemed to flush even more, and he scurried into the kitchen before Michael even could. "I was gonna clean it up, I swear! I just wanted to shower first, and—w-would you like me to fix you dinner? I can make you a sandwich before I clean up—"

"Luce, that won't be necessary," Michael said softly, though he was thankful for the offer. "I'm not hungry."

"Are you sure?" Was Lucifer nervous?

"I'm sure, Luce."

"I'm sorry about the mess, really—"

"Luce, I'm not mad, okay? Don't stress yourself out. I should've called; I know you would've had this all cleaned up before I got home."

That  _did_  seem to calm him. His shoulders relaxed, and he started to take everything else to the sink.

…Michael wondered if Lucifer had been punished for leaving behind a mess. 

_So perfectly obedient._

His jaw clenched as he watched Lucifer hand wash every soiled kitchenware in the sink, scrubbing at them with a sponge before setting them off to dry on a dishtowel. As odd as it was, he hated that Lucifer seemed so concerned about cleanliness; he didn't want to think that it was the result of being abused, but if Michael trusted his gut, he had to believe it was. 

Had Lucifer been hit over a dirty glass? Raped over a knife left on the counter? Tortured over a pan that wasn't cleaned properly? He wouldn't put it past Azazel—why else would Lucifer be so nervous over a minor kitchen mess?

…Did Lucifer…fear him? Did his baby brother think he would hurt him?

Michael felt his heart twisting; he didn't think he could deal with the pain, didn't think he could live thinking that Lucifer feared him as much as he feared Azazel.

He stepped into the kitchen to grab a short glass and a bottle of whiskey stashed in the very back of the cupboard, noticing how Lucifer watched his every move. 

It really fucking hurt. And it wasn't Lucifer's fault. 

(He couldn't help but feel it was entirely  _his_  fault, though.)

"Rough day?" Lucifer asked cautiously, his ice blue eyes never straying from the whiskey bottle. 

Michael simply grunted as he dropped a few ice cubes into the glass and poured his choice of poison over top.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No, not really."

Lucifer dried his hands and his sweats and seemed to get visibly upset. 

Michael felt like shit. "It's…it's nothing against you, Luce. I'm just…upset."

"So you're going to drink instead of talk?"

"I don't want to talk about it, Luce!" Michael snapped. Why was he doing this? Lucifer was just concerned, he didn't deserve this. But he couldn't help it, he couldn't— "Besides,  _you_ never wanted to talk about your problems; you turned to drugs instead of me!" He wasn't being fair. He knew he wasn't. "Why does it matter to you that I choose to drink over talking to you?"

Lucifer could've been slapped, and the expression would've been the same. He bore a look of hurt, anger, devastation. His baby brother was barely holding back tears, and  _he_  was the cause. 

"It matters because dad was a fucking alcoholic, and he never wanted to talk either. You're just like him."

I shouldn't have been a knife to the gut, but Lucifer's words cut him deep, and they only twisted in further when he stormed past him and disappeared into his room. The slamming door behind him shook the walls, and Michael was left alone. 

The ice clinking in his glass was the only sound left in the small apartment as Michael contemplated dumping out the poison that had created an unexpected rift between him and Lucifer. He needed to apologize, he hurt him. Again. He kept hurting him. 

…But Michael downed his drink and grabbed the bottle to take it with him to the couch. He was a failure. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S NOT ABANDONED HAHA


	7. The (Beautiful) Sins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise, bitch.

Everything was going to be okay.  _ He  _ was going to be okay.

Really, he was.

It didn't matter that he wanted to die, that he was desperate to end his life. God, he dreamt of ending his life. Gun in mouth, back of the throat, click, boom, dead. Or pressed against his temple as he stared up at the ceiling, tears in his eyes, making mush of everything in his deranged, fucked-up brainpan.  _ Clickboomdead.  _ It didn't matter. None of it mattered.

And it didn't, because he had—tucked away in his hand—what would supposedly heal him. It remained to be seen, but he'd give his life one last shot (ha) at happiness. He prayed silently to God to let this work; he didn't want to die, he just wanted to be happy.

So it would be. Had he known just how happy he could be, he would've done this long ago. Lucifer opened his hand and stared at the small, plastic baggie resting in his palm before he emptied the white, powdery contents onto his nightstand. He didn't have a credit card, but he did have a crisp five-dollar bill that he folded lengthwise twice, and it was just stiff enough to coax the drug into a somewhat neat line. That was all he needed, all he needed. That same bill was then unfolded, smoothed, delicately rolled into a makeshift straw.

He wasn't exactly the best at snorting the drug; on the contrary, he had a sneezing fit immediately after, the fine powder irritating the living hell out of his sinuses. Damn near questioned why he even thought it was a good idea to even do this, but once the sneezing fit subsided and got replaced with that wonderful rush.

Fuck, did it feel good.

Limbs grew heavy, head dizzy and clouded and sparking all at once. Eyelids drooped, mouth went dry, and he felt so damn warm, all over, skin flushing as if it were a hot summer day. Every inch of his body felt so damn good, like…

...it felt like those times Michael would rub feather-light circles onto the back of his neck with the tips of his fingers when peering over his shoulder, and Lucifer's entire body would break out in gooseflesh, shivering at the touch.

It felt like the rapidly fading memory of his mother's embrace.

It felt like the swelling in his chest—that he hadn't felt for years—when his father would smile at him and laugh and rub his hair.

He collapsed to his knees and leaned against his bed, his breathing slowing down and God, he felt so tired and so alive and—

How much time had passed? Seconds? Minutes? Hours? Lucifer had no fucking clue (nor did he really care). He was happy though, and that was all that mattered, right? He didn't want to die anymore. A small smile graced his lips and he closed his eyes, unable to keep them open.

That was, until they snapped open upon strong hands grabbing fistfuls of his shirt front. He was yanked to his feet, and he could only smell the reek of alcohol, disoriented as he was, before he felt the sting of an open hand slapping his cheek.

“Are you insane?! What the fuck have you done, Lucifer?!”

_ Dad _ . Lucifer flashed him a weak but toothy smile, happy to see him. He didn't even care that his cheek was throbbing, he had his Dad. “I made myself happy, Daddy,” he slurred.

Another slap to the face, and this time, it hurt. A few tears sprung from his eyes.

“No! You—you’re fucking—you’re a disgrace! How  _ dare  _ you, Lucifer?! How dare you bring this shit around your brothers, around Raphael and Gabriel?!”

Lucifer blinked, face flushing even more. He felt too hot, burning now with shame and self-hatred. “Daddy, please—”

“I didn't raise you this way!”

No, he didn't raise him at all. Michael did.

“Can you even fucking understand me, Lucifer?! Look at me!”

This time, it was a punch to the face. Lucifer cupped his nose, yelping in pain as blood dripped into his palms. Bright blue eyes, brimming with wet tears, stared up at him.

It hurt, he hurt him. “Daddy—!” A hand circled his throat, choking him, and he was slammed against the wall. Azazel was furious.

“Did you honestly think you could steal from me, boy?” He asked, his voice low and threatening, yellow eyes burning with fury. Lucifer struggled to breathe, and he grabbed at the man’s wrist, begging the best he could without speaking.

Azazel shook him, and Lucifer was scared that the man was going to crush his throat. “Did I give you permission to shoot up?!”

Lucifer croaked out a feeble “No,” unable to stop the stream of tears that now flowed down his cheeks and into the corners of his lips, where it mixed with metallic blood.

“So then why did you steal drugs from me, you worthless slut?”

He couldn't breathe. He was so terrified that he was going to be killed here and now, all because he was stupid and needed to get high. Lucifer sobbed, losing even more breath because of it.

“I-I’m sorry, Daddy, I'm sorry!” He was so dizzy, he was going to die.

And Azazel just hummed, letting up his grip so that he could stroke a thumb over the blond's trembling lip. “...I don't think you are, Angel. You're not sorry one bit.” He paused, feeling the fifteen-year-old’s rapid pulse beneath his fingers, that adrenaline rushing through his veins. It was exhilarating. “...Does Daddy need to teach his Angel a lesson, hmm? Does Daddy need to get his friends to come punish you?”

Lucifer shook his head, gasping as he struggled to control himself, keep himself from panicking. “No!” He cried. “No, no no no no no no!”

Azazel gave Lucifer a sympathetic look, but it didn't last long before he tutted and kissed his forehead. “I think so.”

He wailed, apologizing over and over and promising he'd never steal from him again, anything to keep this from happening. Yet, despite it all, it indeed did happen; it wasn't long before several pairs of hands were roaming over his naked body, dirtying him, touching him and pulling him apart, pulling him to them. A tug of war between six men, and he was the rope.

And when it was over, he was laying on the ground, broken, sweaty, dirty, sticky, and he was silently weeping. It was what he deserved for being a thieving whore.

But then Azazel scooped him up into his arms and petted his hair, shushing him and hugging him and comforting him. He didn't want to melt into the man’s embrace, but he had no choice. It was a gentle touch, and he craved it.

“It's okay, Angel. Daddy's not mad at you anymore. Daddy could never stay mad at you.” A kiss to the top of his head. “Remember, Lucifer...I am the only one who will ever love you. I am the only one who will never leave you.”

A hand trailed down his back, paused on his ass, and then there was a sharp sting as it was spanked. Lucifer yelped, bracing himself by grabbing Alistair's ankle. The man was rough, and he grabbed the boy's ass without any sort of gentleness, fingernails catching painfully on the rim of his hole. Tears sprung to Lucifer's eyes as Alistair hummed.

“You're prettiest like this, hmm. In pain—” he shoved two fingers in quickly, no prep, and Lucifer cried out. “—screaming. Nothing more arousing than, hmm, pretty things being tortured for being so pretty.”

“Nothing more arousing than punishing whores who try to steal my husband,” Lilith chimed in from across the room, arms crossed over her naked chest. Her voice was deceptively soft and breathy. “Baby, I want to hear his voice get torn to shreds.”

“Hmm, you know my brother wouldn't allow that. Can't damage his property…” Fingers hooked inside Lucifer's ass, then quickly ripped out.

Lucifer screamed again, feeling a sticky wet slide down his cheeks and thighs.

“We don't have to mark him,” she whined. “Hang him up by his wrists, baby. Let's make him  _ dance. _ I have the jumper cables…”

“Mm, I'm going to fuck you so hard.”

His face was shoved into the mattress, hand holding his head down, and Lucifer lifted his ass higher to present it.

Dick Roman laughed, rubbing his dick against Lucifer's wet, prepped hole. “Eager, huh? Good. I like that you always are a slut for my cock, princess.”

He eased in, and Lucifer moaned.

He started fucking him...and Lucifer cried.

His hand caressed Lucifer's cheek, a thumb brushing away tears. “You're okay, I've got you.”

Lucifer clung to Michael like a vice.

And then a sharp gasp erupted from his lips, eyes snapping open as he woke in a cold sweat, body shaking uncontrollably.

He was staring at the ceiling, heart pounding, mind buzzing. A bad dream. It was all a bad dream. Bad memories, bad dream. Forget, forget, forget—but he couldn't, and he was panicking.

Lucifer tore the sheets off his body and fell out of bed; he had to vomit. He felt sick, so sick, and weak, and—

Hot. But he was shivering. He was sweating. Oh God, he needed it—he needed to get high. Lucifer choked on his cries as he crawled to the kitchen, clinging to the countertop to pull himself up. His heart was pounding against his ribcage, bruising, hurting.

There it was—the pack of cigarettes Michael had left him. For withdrawal only. This sure as fuck was one; he snatched the carton and the lighter beside it and managed to stumble to the door.

The winter air was cool against his skin; he was nowhere near dressed appropriately, wearing a simple t-shirt and pajama bottoms, but it didn't matter. This did, calming down did. And so he shut the door and leaned against it and quickly tore into the pack and lit up.

He sucked the first down in just a little over a minute, and then the second, the third, the fourth. He was nearly halfway through the pack before he felt himself starting to calm, and Lucifer slowed down to savor this one. Stinging eyes closed, and he rested his head against the door. Fuck.

He could feel the tears burning behind his eyelids, primed to fall the moment his eyes would open, but he couldn't stop the quivering of his chin and lip.

Why was this happening? Why was he so weak?

_ Call me if you have a withdrawal. _

That's right, Michael wanted him to call if this happened. Lucifer took a shuddering breath and finished off his current fag before he crushed the remaining embers on the concrete beside him. He slowly opened his eyes, shocked and surprised that he managed to bite back the tears, and stood.

Call Michael.

He turned to the door and grasped the handle to head back inside—

...But it wouldn't turn. He paused.

Fuck.

Stupid, stupid, stupid! Too damn worried about getting outside to smoke, that he forgot to grab the damn key.

Lucifer shivered again. This time, it was due to the cold. He could feel it on his bare feet, his toes curling and numb. He could feel it in his core, and he exhaled, trying to keep calm, but—fuck.

He slid back to the ground and hugged his legs to his chest, doing everything he could to keep warm, but he knew that was a futile attempt. He would never get warm in this condition. The blond buried his face in his knees. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

“Hey, kid. You okay?”

Lucifer hadn't even noticed the stranger that started walking by, backpack slung over one shoulder. He lifted his face to stare at him. “Kid? You look like you're only a year older than me at most.”

The other man shrugged, but still bore that look of concern on his face. “I'm 23.”

“...Five years, then.”

He blinked. “You're 18?”

“Almost.”

“You...don't look it, to be honest. But nevermind that, you didn't answer me. Are you okay?”

Lucifer continued to stare at him. Tall, sunkissed skin, soft brown hair. And underneath all his (warm) layers of clothes, he could tell there was an athletic build. Wait, he knew him  He locked eyes with hazel ones, before he broke the contact and looked away. “...Locked myself out. Forgot my key inside.”

“Ah, that's awful. I...um, if you wanna come over to my place—I’m in the apartment a couple doors down, actually—you can warm up and I can help you.”

Lucifer looked back up. “You can?”

The stranger flushed, clearly embarrassed about something, but he nodded. “Yeah. That, or I could just keep you company until Michael gets back.”

“How—”

“Michael's my neighbor,” he laughed.

Oh, right. Sam, with the brother Dean. He ran into him the first night.

“And...I know who you are too, Lucifer. Don't worry, I'm not going to rat you or your friend out,” he quickly added when he saw Lucifer bristle.

“How can I trust you?”

Sam smiled. “...I ran into Michael earlier this morning as he was heading to work, and I to school. He...told me that you might need help.”

“And why would he trust you?”

He chuckled now, shifting his weight. “Because he helped me before, too. I owe my life to him and my older brother, really.” The man then extended a hand to Lucifer. “...I was a drug addict, too.”

Lucifer stared at the man's hand for a long time before finally taking it.

“You? But you don't seem like the type to do drugs.”

“Oh, I forgot to introduce myself. Sam Winchester,” he said, sharing a warm smile as he pulled Lucifer to his feet.

“Sam,” the blond said slowly, letting the name roll off his tongue. Sam. He was certainly strong, and kind, and Lucifer wondered if he could ever be like him.

The older man nodded, gently leading Lucifer to his own apartment. “And yes, I did drugs. I was a completely different person three years ago. This version of me you're talking to is one who has worked hard to overcome his addiction.”

Lucifer was silent, though he nodded in acknowledgement. Michael had not only apparently helped Sam the addict, but he thought Sam could help. Help with what, exactly? Be an inspiring success story?

He watched as Sam unlocked his apartment door, his large hands surprisingly graceful. Sam tucked a loose tuft of hair behind his ear and twisted the doorknob, gesturing for Lucifer to go on ahead and enter first. He gladly obliged.

A damn near erotic moan fell from his lips upon entering the warmth, his feet and hands stinging from the sudden change in temperature. He beelined for the couch and plopped face first on the old thing as Sam shrugged off his backpack and toed off his boots.

“Would you like coffee? Tea? Cocoa?”

“Cocoa please,” came Lucifer's muffled reply. 

“Coming right up.”

Lucifer heard the shuffling in the kitchen as Sam moved to make his drink, thankful for the man’s kindness and thankful that he was not witness to his panic and withdrawal. Former addict or not, he didn't think Sam would be so willing to help him had he seen that. He certainly wouldn't be…

A heavy weight was suddenly placed over his body, soft and warm and Lucifer opened his eyes as Sam walked away. A blanket covered him, and Lucifer bit his lip, his heart fluttering. Sam was so nice.

It was only a few more minutes before Sam came by again, two mugs of cocoa with him, and Lucifer sat up and wrapped the blanket around him to make room for the brunet. Sam sat down next to him and Lucifer took the offered mug with thanks.

“So what happened?”

“Withdrawal,” Lucifer said as he took a sip of the cocoa. It was amazing. “Needed to smoke; I wasn't thinking right.”

Sam nodded in understanding. “It's the hardest part about recovery. You get that urge, craving, think you won't survive without a hit of something, anything to take the edge off.”

“Yeah.”

“You feel like your life depends on it.”

“Yeah.”

There was a beat of silence, and both of them never felt like they have been so understood in their lives. Sam took a sip of cocoa, swallowed, exhaled, and then continued on. “But it doesn't. You don't need it, despite how badly you think you do at the start. It's going to be a rough ride, but you'll feel so much better when you conquer this thing you think controls you. It doesn't. You control it.”

Lucifer laughed humorlessly, staring down into his mug. “I can't control anything in my life. I doubt I can control this.”

“Do  _ not  _ say that. That's a negative self-fulfilling prophecy—if you believe you won't succeed, then you won't. You have to believe you can beat this.”

“But what if I fail?”

“Then you pick yourself back up and keep trying. You don't give up simply because you slipped and fell. You'll never get ahead and succeed if you don't put in the effort, Lucifer. You  _ have  _ to try; this isn't something that will just be handed to you.”

Lucifer was quiet, heart beating fast and he felt sick—he wanted to throw up and curl into a ball and cry, and he didn't understand why it was so fucking hard to just be  _ normal. _

He was so scared of failure. He didn't want to make any mistakes and be a disappointment again, but he couldn't see any future where he wasn't one. Michael would abandon him, he would be a junkie, and he would die on the streets. Alone. Forgotten. Just another statistic. Lucifer shook.

“I don't want to fail. I want to be perfect.”

Sam gave him a sympathetic look. “Are you scared?”

Lucifer nodded.

“That's normal, kiddo. I was terrified, too. But you still have to work for it.” He wrapped an arm around the blond and pulled him closer, into a comforting hug. “You don't have to fight alone, though. You have Michael, and myself. Dean too, I'm sure, but he can be a bit of an ass. He's a tough-love kind of guy.”

He was calmed, but he still wasn't convinced. Lucifer leaned against Sam and tried to think positively. He wasn't sure how to do that.

* * *

He felt terrible after last night. He hadn't meant to snap at Lucifer, to hurt him. And he did, Michael knew he had hurt him. There was pain in his little brother’s eyes as he poured himself a glass of that damned whiskey, and there was force behind the words he spit out, likening him to their drunk father. Just like him.

Before, Michael would've taken it as a compliment. He always thought their father was a good man, and he would've felt pride to have been likened to him. But from Lucifer...it was nothing short of the most vile insult. The pain, hurt, anger, rejection—Michael didn't want to be the cause of any of that, and so it was a slap to the face and he needed to make it right. He would go home, empty the whiskey down the drain, and apologize to Lucifer. He was scared, was all. Lucifer was scared.

But something wasn't right. Michael felt it as soon as he stepped inside the apartment that something wasn't right. His heartbeat quickened. “Luce?”

No answer.

Michael panicked immediately. No. Had he driven him off? No, no, no! He couldn't lose him! “Lucifer!”

He checked every room. Rumpled bed sheets, but his clothes and backpack and boots were still there. Oh God, he feared the worst.

Had Alistair found him? Had he been kidnapped?

No. Stop, think. Be rational.

Michael attempted to calm his breathing, attempted to slow down. Look around. Any sign of struggle?

No.

Boots still here. Backpack still here.

He opened the dresser drawers. All of Lucifer's clothes were still there, neatly folded. Cell phone on top of the dresser.

Back into the kitchen. No mess, nothing out of place, except—

Something missing. The cigarettes and the lighter.

Michael exhaled slowly, feeling a bit of relief. Lucifer had to smoke. Okay, he was okay. Right? Yes. Why didn't he call? Right. Cell phone, dresser top. He forgot it.

But where was he?

Michael quickly exited the apartment again and checked outside. There were ashes and cigarette butts just outside his door. So he couldn't have gone far, right?

Unless he was kidnapped.

No! Fuck, think rationally. Michael tried to control his breathing again.

And just as he was thinking of what to do, the Winchester's apartment door opened, and Sam poked his head out. The young man smiled. “Ah! I thought so—” he turned to look back inside, addressing someone. “Michael's back!”

Michael stared at his neighbor as he stepped aside, allowing—...allowing Lucifer to exit and Jesus fucking Christ, Michael had never felt so relieved. He exhaled sharply, feeling numb and weak but it was okay because Lucifer was okay. He looked a wreck, but he was okay.

The blond gave the brunet a hug and thanked him, and Sam pat his back before saying “Any time.”

Lucifer was still in his PJs, bony feet bare, and Michael could smell the lingering odor of tobacco on him as he approached but he didn't care. Lucifer was safe. “Withdrawal?”

The blond nodded meekly, ashamed. But there was nothing to be ashamed about—Michael was just glad Lucifer was okay. Safe. He put a hand on his back, pulling him closer.

“Thank you, Sam. I owe you.”

“Don't worry about it, Michael!” Sam chirped. “I'm the one who owes you. Take care!”

Michael waved as Sam disappeared back into his apartment, and then wasted no time in ushering Lucifer into theirs to get him out of the cold.

The door had barely shut behind them when Lucifer opened his mouth to explain, but Michael didn't need an explanation. He pulled Lucifer to his chest, nearly crushing him in his hug.

“Jesus Christ,” the brunet exhaled. “Jesus, I was so frightened, Lucifer. I was worried, I was scared something had happened to you—”

“M-Micha, I'm sorry—”

“No. No no no, don't apologize. You're safe, and that's all that matters.”

“I-I accidentally locked myself out—” he tried to explain.

“I know. It's okay, I'm not mad. I'm not—I’m just happy nothing bad happened to you.” Michael finally pulled away from the hug, stared at Lucifer, cupped his face and stroked his cheeks with his thumbs. Lucifer stared back, wide-eyed and looking lost. God, he— “I'm sorry, Luce.”

“For what?” He asked, breathless.

—he wanted—

“Last night. I was wrong. I—I should've talked to you instead of drinking. You were right, and I'm sorry.”

Lucifer covered one of his hands with his own. “Micha…”

—he wanted nothing more than to—

“Please, forgive me,” Michael begged. Please.

And icy blue eyes softened, a small smile on his lips. Lucifer wrapped his arms around Michael's torso, weak and tired, his frail body pressed against Michael's stronger one. “I forgive you.”

—he wanted nothing more than to kiss him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I bet you thought you'd seen the last of me.


	8. The (Sinful) Thoughts

Michael shrugged it off as a one-time thing. It was pure relief, and only that. Relief that Lucifer, although shaken up from his episode, was alright. Relief that he was safe. That no one had harmed him, and that he simply and accidentally locked himself out of the house. His relief was the only driving force behind Michael feeling the need to kiss his baby brother.

He took an early night because of it, saying goodnight to Lucifer and telling him to keep it down please, if you're going to stay up and watch TV. Shut his bedroom door, slipped into a clean t-shirt and sleep pants before he climbed into bed and closed his eyes. 

Of course, as fate would have it, sleep eluded Michael. Couldn't sleep these feelings off, no. He just had to keep thinking about how wrong it was that he had wanted to kiss his own damn brother. Fuck, he needed to get laid. Find a pretty girl, kiss  _ her  _ and then maybe he wouldn't be so starved. 

It was a one-time thing. Nothing more. And his heart certainly didn't flutter when later that night (after hours of the failed wooing of sleep), Lucifer crawled into his bad, sweaty and clammy, clinging to him like a vice. He wished he could do more to make those whimpers subside, do more than just wrap his arms tightly around the blond and whisper encouragement into his ear; but he didn't know what he could do, because he definitely didn't feel the need to kiss him again. It...it was a one-time thing. 

He couldn't sleep. Not even when those pitiful hiccups from the teen subsided, not even when Lucifer's breathing evened out, or when he was fast asleep once more. No...Michael stared up at the ceiling, trying to ignore how his arm was going numb. He refused to move it. He tried to ignore the wash of warm breath over his collarbone, where Lucifer's head nestled. Tried to ignore the leg hooked with his, the hand grasping his shirt, the hips pressed against his side. Ignore how they fit so perfectly together.

Minutes ticked by, and Michael still couldn't quiet his mind or will himself to sleep. He turned his head to finally look at his brother; perhaps it wasn't the smartest thing to do looking back, but it certainly helped to put his racing thoughts on hold.

Lucifer looked so peaceful. There was no furrow in his brow, no downturn of his lips. He looked serene, like an angel. The brunet wondered in brief if the blond was dreaming, or if he was enjoying a rare, dreamless sleep. If he  _ was _ dreaming, Michael hoped it was nothing but good.

Startled, he found his hand had unconsciously settled on his brother's cheek, his thumb swiping back and forth on the bone beneath translucent skin. Lucifer shifted and sighed, but otherwise remained in deep sleep. Michael's thumb paused, and green eyes flickered to pink lips, parted slightly. His hand trailed, and fingers skirted, feather light, across them. 

His heart pounded against his ribs. It almost hurt, but Michael found he didn't much care. His eyelids drooped, thumb ever so gently tugging Lucifer's bottom lip down as he held onto his chin.

Maybe...maybe he could just give a light, chaste peck to those lips, to satiate his buzzing mind. Michael wet his own lips, and began to duck his head down. 

...But he stopped. It wasn't right. Lucifer was sleeping, and...and besides, that was his brother. 

No, he couldn't sleep, just like he couldn't kiss Lucifer.

 

* * *

 

Michael woke to the sound of a running shower and the slowly creeping cold of an empty space on his bed. Bleary eyes blinked open and he sat up with a groan. Apparently, sleep was a fickle mistress, and she would only wrap him in her embrace when she wanted to; he couldn't even remember falling asleep, though he did remember the sky just starting to lighten when he finally managed to seduce sleep. 

The sky. Shit.

Alertness came next, and green eyes snapped to the window where it indeed indicated the sky to be at mid-morning. He glanced at the clock and confirmed his fears—past 10. He missed class. He ran a hand across his face and sighed; it seemed an email was in order, and hoping that his professors would be understanding.

There goes that perfect attendance, however. Disappointing.

It was another five minutes or so before Michael found the willpower to sling his legs over the side of the bed and actually get up. As he stood, he debated with himself on whether or not he should head to his remaining classes for the day, or if he should just cut his losses and simply head into work at the start of his shift. 

...But then he remembered Lucifer—his bad withdrawal while he was away, and then the second one last night. Surely, there wouldn't be a third in such quick succession, but…perhaps it  _ was  _ best to remain home for a short while. Just to be sure. And besides, it gave Michael an excuse to make waffles and drink as much coffee as he needed. Good knows he needed it today. 

So that was that. His decision was made; he would stay home with Lucifer and miss class for the day, and then head into work and go about whatever tasks Zachariah set him to—Zachariah! Right, Michael forgot to mention his boss's deal to Lucifer that other night when he was—...when he was drunk. Michael could feel his heart sink at the memory, how he snapped at Lucifer and how he was an all-around ass. It didn't matter that Azazel got under his skin; he shouldn't have taken his frustrations out on Lucifer. They needed to talk. 

Perhaps it was a blessing in disguise that he missed his first classes. 

It was with that in mind that he quietly made his way to the bathroom door, knuckles poised to knock on it and let Lucifer know that he needed to talk. 

He never knocked, though, his fist paused in mid-air, for Michael was certain he heard the soft lilt of his brother's voice filtering through the door over the sound of the shower. Was he singing? A smile graced his lips at the thought, and he strained to listen. 

“—an accident, I swear.”

Michael frowned. He didn't like that; it wasn't the forgotten melodics of Lucifer's gentle tenor. It was the fearful pleading of a timid boy. 

“I...I was busy yesterday, and I forgot. I'm sorry—”

It sounded like he wanted to say more, but was cut off. Was he having a conversation? Michael listened closely. 

“I know you said every day, sir, but I had a—…it's not an excuse!” There was a hushed insistence in his voice. “No, I'm not talking back, sir…”

He didn't like this. Michael felt sick. Was Lucifer doing something behind his back? No…no, this wasn't an intentional deception. Lucifer was scared. 

He paled. Was it Alistair? Was he threatening his baby brother? Was Lucifer in danger?

“I'm sorry. I won't do it again, I promise. I—I-I’ll make up for it—”

Michael had enough. He knocked on the door, and could hear the sudden pause in Lucifer's voice. “Hey, Luce? Are you alright?”

“I'm fine!” came the too-quick reply. 

He heard a gentle  _ thud,  _ and then the sound of the shower being turned off. A couple of seconds passed before the door handle jostled and Michael took a step back. 

Steam billowed into the room when the door opened, and Lucifer was silhouetted in its frame. 

As Michael's eyes adjusted to the light, he caught glimpses of peculiar details. Sure, there was a towel around Lucifer's hips, and his skin was pink and moisturized, but it was suspiciously lacking any droplets of water. Even his hair, which should've been dripping, was damp at best. It was as if he had been talking for quite a while. Michael's gaze flickered to Lucifer's phone on the toilet seat.

“Did you need the bathroom?”

Michael blinked. “Ah...no, I was just,” he paused, not entirely sure how to continue.  _ Are you hiding something from me?  _ No, too abrasive and distrusting.  _ I heard you talking to someone.  _ Distrusting, again.  _ Who were you talking to? _ Eavesdropping. “...I was wondering if you wanted some waffles. I was going to make some.”

A relieved smile found its way onto Lucifer’s face. “Waffles? I think I’d like that. Thank you, Mi—”

He was startled into cutting his sentence short by the sound of his buzzing phone bouncing across the toilet seat. He nervously glanced over his shoulder, the minute contortion of his body causing the towel around his waist to loosen just the slightest bit.

Michael supposed this was his opportunity to find out who Lucifer was having secret conversations with. “Are you going to get that?”

There was a moment of contemplation, where Lucifer chewed his bottom lip worriedly between his teeth, eyebrows furrowed together. Michael could see the balancing of the pros and cons in his little brother’s head, Lucifer trying to decide whether or not he would risk giving up his secret.

“...No, it’s fine,” he said slowly. There was indecisiveness in his tone.

Michael, likewise, tried very hard to not let his disappointment show. “Alright. Well, go ahead and dry off and get dressed. Breakfast should be ready shortly.”

“Alright. Thank you, Micha,” Lucifer gently said. The phone finally stopped buzzing. 

He nodded, took one last cursory glance at his brother, and then hastily pivoted toward the kitchen. Michael made a silent prayer to God, begging that Lucifer wasn't in danger. 

Once in the kitchen, the brunet went on autopilot, his muscle memory whipping up a batch of Belgian waffle batter in a matter of seconds after having plugged in the iron. He did it so quickly, in fact, that the iron itself was not yet hot enough, so Michael put on a pot of coffee in the meantime. Lucifer came into the kitchen when the iron finally chirped. He looked vacant and distant.

“Hey, perfect timing,” Michael said, pouring a bit of the batter onto the iron. “Do you want some fruit with your breakfast?”

Lucifer hummed absentmindedly, seemingly more focused on rolling a pinch of his gray sweater between his fingers.

“Luce?”

“Yes.”

Michael frowned. Something was definitely off. “Lucifer,” he said with a bit more force. 

The blond looked up at him after he flinched. “Yes, sir?”

The older man shivered. “What’s going on?”

His gaze fell to the floor. “N-nothing, sir.”

“You're a terrible liar, Lucifer. Tell me the truth.”

The younger visibly stiffened, tense and scared and defensive. Michael saw how Lucifer gripped his elbow tight, saw how his eyes widened in fear, saw how his breath hitched. “I-I swear sir, it's nothi—”

“Lucifer, stop it.” He didn't like the 'sir,’ he didn't like the fear. He didn't like the deception. “I know something's up. I heard you talking on the phone with someone.”

Lucifer went silent, though his body faintly shook.

“Who is it?”

Silence. 

“Azazel? Alistair?”

He shook his head. That was...a relief, at least. 

“Is someone threatening you?”

He shook his head again. 

“Then who is it?”

Nothing. 

Michael's eyes grew steely. “...Is it a drug dealer?”

“No!” Lucifer finally seemed to snap out of his haze, a look of offence smeared over his features. “No, he's not a drug dealer! Do you—do you seriously not trust me?”

Michael crossed his arms. He didn't know why he was being accused, as if he was in the wrong. As if he was hiding something. “I trust you to be honest with me,” he said calmly, not taking the bait, “yet you are concealing the truth from me. If you would just tell me what's going on, I wouldn't have to make these kinds of speculations.”

Lucifer immediately went on the defensive. “Why does it even matter? You don't have to know everything that's going on in my life; I have a right to privacy!”

He slowly exhaled, trying his best to remain calm in the face of his brother's stubbornness. “It matters because I care about you, Luce.” Michael's tone was hard despite the words, but it immediately softened when Lucifer's shoulders sagged. He took a few steps toward him, and hooked his fingers beneath the blond's chin, tilting his head up to face his. “You do have a right to privacy, yes. But I can't just ignore things that are suspicious.”

Lucifer opened his mouth to retort, but Michael cut him off. 

“I'm not saying  _ you  _ are suspicious, Luce. I'm fearful that someone is trying to hurt you, or threaten you, or manipulate you. I don't want that to happen. I'm suspicious of  _ other  _ people.”

Lucifer's jaw tensed beneath Michael's fingers, his eyebrows knitting together and his eyes growing wet.

“What's going on? Who has you so scared?”

“I'm not scared,” came the wobbling reply. 

“Then what are you?”

“I'm—...I'm hurt…”

Michael felt his heart break, and Lucifer dropped his head. Michael's fingers brushed along his jaw, and then his hand settled to cup his cheek. 

“Who hurt you?”

“Who hasn't?”

He was being difficult, even still. “Lucifer…”

The waffle iron chirped then, and Michael almost wished he hadn't made breakfast. He stared at his brother, hoping he'd give an honest answer, but when none came, he sighed and drew away to plate the waffle. His hand was damp. 

Was he going about this all the wrong way? Why was it so difficult to get Lucifer to open up to him? Why was he being so stubborn, why was he deliberately dodging his questions? He set the plate down and poured more batter into the iron. 

“A client.”

Michael almost thanked God out loud. He turned to face his brother again, who appeared to be struggling with all this. 

“Does this client have a name?”

Lucifer ignored him, fidgeting with his sweater again. “He...he's upset with me. It's my fault, I didn't do what I promised him. So he called, let me know he was upset with me, and to remind me that I...that I am supposed to listen to him and obey him, and that I'm…I’m just a whore.”

“He's wrong!” Michael snarled, rage boiling in his gut. Why? Why did everyone have to kick Lucifer down like that? “He's wrong, and he's a fucking sorry excuse for a man!”

“B-but I—”

“Lucifer, I swear to God, if you try to defend him, I'm going to smack some sense into you—”

“I  _ am!  _ I can't escape it, Micha, I—” Lucifer flinched and immediately stumbled back when he saw the anger on his brother's face. “I'm sorry! Please, don't punish me! I—Micha, I try! I try so hard to be good, to a-assert myself,” he stuttered, “but I can't win! I can't, I don't have the strength to do it!”

A bit of the anger faded away and was replaced with mortification. Did...did Michael scare Lucifer?

“I swear, Micha, I tried telling him no, but he insisted, and he—h-he won't let me go, he will never let me go!”

“Who, Lucifer? Who is it?”

The blond shook his head. “I-I can't!”

“Yes, you can. Lucifer, please,” Michael dropped to his knees, grabbed his brother's hands, pleaded. “Please, let me protect you.”

“You can't!” wailed Lucifer, tears finally spilling over his cheeks. “God, why can't you understand that? Why can't you accept the fact that there's nothing you can do to save me?”

“Why can't you accept that there's nothing you can do to stop me from trying?!” He got to his feet and cupped Lucifer's cheeks again, feeling the wet beneath his hands. “Luce,  _ please, _ you need to let me in. You need to  _ let  _ me save you. You need to  _ let  _ me protect you. I can't do  _ shit _ if you won't let me, if you won't tell me what the fuck’s going on.”

“I-I'm a whore—”

“Lucifer, for fuck's sake—!”

“Michael listen to me!” Lucifer grabbed fistfuls of his older brother’s shirt, voice wobbling as he lost the last bit of his composure.  “Just—just shut up and listen! I'm a whore! I know I am, I know I'm a whore and that's something that you can't just fucking change just because you don't want to hear it! I—” he struggled to find his words, growing more and more frustrated until he started breathing hard, choking back sobs. 

Michael could only pull Lucifer to his chest, feeling once again helpless to do anything. He could only hug him, carding a hand through soft, clean, golden hair. Lucifer crumpled against him and finally broke down. Perhaps Michael needed help too. He could never seem to manage a calm discussion with Lucifer. It was always explosive and passionate, flames fueled further and further by his own wrath and Lucifer's stubborn pride. Michael realized he could do with being gentler, more compassionate. This was his second chance too, after all, and he didn't want to blow it. 

It was only when Lucifer's sobs devolved into hiccups that Michael finally spoke up again, still petting that silken hair. “Why do you say you're a whore?” He asked softly. 

“Because I am.”

“I want reasons, Lucifer. Specifics.”

“Because I let people fuck me for drugs and money.”

The waffle iron chirped, but Michael didn't move. It could burn for all he cared. “No, you don't.”

“Yes I do.”

“Not anymore, Luce.”

“Once a whore, always a whore.” A sniffle. “That’s what he said. And he's fucking right, because I...I had phone sex, and I sent him nudes, and I know I didn't have to do that but I did anyway! He—there was no money or drugs involved but I still did it because I'm a whore!”

“Your client?”

Lucifer barely nodded. 

“The one who called you earlier?”

Another nod. 

Michael paused and contemplated. “Hmm, he's a piece of shit. And you're not a whore.”

The blond’s head shot up. “Michael—”

He placed a finger on Lucifer's lips, immediately silencing him with a quiet  _ shhh. _ “Lucifer, if you honestly think you're a whore, then I'll pay you $100 to go fuck someone right now.”

Blue eyes widened in shock, a bright flush overtaking Lucifer's cheeks as Michael stood up and unplugged the waffle iron. “What did you say?”

“I think you heard me perfectly clear,” Michael said off-handedly. “Hell, I'll pay you $500 to go fuck someone right now.”

Lucifer got to his feet, now feeling hurt and betrayed and ashamed. “Y-you can't be serious…”

“I am, Lucifer,” Michael said, pulling a few strawberries out of the fridge. “You can go fuck anyone you want, and I'll pay you for it.”

More tears rolled down Lucifer's cheeks as he clenched his fists at his sides. He watched as Michael nonchalantly sliced the strawberries up, topping the one good waffle with them. Michael was just like them. He didn't care about him, he only wanted to use him—!

“If you think you're really a whore, Lucifer, I'll pay you $500 to go fuck someone right now. Or,” he finally looked at him again, and offered him the strawberry covered waffle. “...if you don't think you're a whore, you can have breakfast and wipe away those tears.”

And now he was taken aback, completely shocked.

“...Your choice.”

Lucifer couldn't place the feeling. His heart hurt so much, it squeezed itself in his chest. He felt angry, weak, afraid, ashamed, and...relieved. He had no idea what to call this mix of emotions, but…

...he raised his hands, and took the plate. 

That was when Michael finally started trembling. God, that was far more difficult than he ever imagined. But he cracked a smile and walked with Lucifer to the dining table. “See? There you have it. If you  _ were  _ a...a whore, you would've taken me up on my offer, would you have not? Look at me.”

Lucifer paused and stared up at Michael, face red, plate in his hands. Michael couldn't help but hook a finger under his chin again.

“I never want to hear you call yourself that again. You are  _ not  _ what those men say you are. It doesn't matter how many times they say that; it doesn't matter how much they insist that is all you are. They're _ wrong,  _ Lucifer. They are insecure men who have nothing better to do than go on a self-serving power trip. In order for them to do that, they have to bring others down, and completely crush their self-esteem so that they can have control. And you know why they target you?”

Lucifer's jaw quivered, and he shook his head. 

“They target you, because they know that if they let you shine and let you have your own free will, if they let you love yourself, you will be so incredibly amazing and gorgeous and unbreakable that they will be completely and utterly insignificant. They will have no power over you. So don't you dare let them tell you who or what you are, no matter how hard they try to bring you down. The only one who can determine who you are is you, and I'll be here to root you on and support you and fight for you.”

And then Michael finished, his breaths laboring in the heavy, suffocating air. He couldn't peel his eyes away from Lucifer's, and Lucifer from his.

His eyes…

The color of ice blue glaciers glowing with the filtered light of an arctic sun...was nearly swallowed by the deep, ebony abyss of his dilated pupils. 

Lucifer nearly threw the plate onto the table, and Michael's heart stopped. Skinny arms wrapped around his neck so suddenly, he had no choice but to stumble back to counteract the force of the hug. His breath hitched, and the blond pressed his face to his neck. 

“Why are you so perfect?”

Michael's heart accelerated. “I'm not. I just...I love you, and I want what's best for you.”

“Micha, what you said...no one's ever said that to me.”

“Doesn't make me perfect…”

“It makes you perfect to me.”

Frail fingers waved their way through Michael's greasy hair. He thought he was going to go into cardiac arrest. “Luce, I...it was not my intention to have you think I was perfect. I just wanted to encourage you.” Don't look at him. Don't look into his eyes, he'll see right through you, know how much you want to kiss him.

“Micha, I want to…”

He put his warm hands on Lucifer's bony hips and caved; he  _ had _ to look at him, and God, he was beautiful. 

“I want to make you proud.”

“Yeah?”

Kiss him. 

“...I want to get my diploma, and go to college and get a degree.”

“Really? That's—that’s wonderful, Luce!” Disgusting, Michael. “Let me take a shower, and then we can talk. You go eat.”

Lucifer smiled and nodded, his heart fluttering, before he finally let go of his older brother. 

Michael disappeared into the bathroom faster than normal and locked the door behind him.

Disgusting. 

He started the shower, the stream cold and biting. 

Filth. 

He tore out of his t-shirt and boxers. 

Freak. 

The ice water stung like a bitch on Michael's heated skin, and he hissed through clenched teeth. 

But still, it did nothing to wither him away; on the contrary, with Lucifer's image still fresh in his mind—all dilated eyes and wet lips—it only fueled him further. 

Michael closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against the shower wall, bracing himself with one arm while he grasped his semi-hard arousal with his free hand, jerking while the ghost sensations of hands in his hair were still there.

 

* * *

 

“Apparently, they found Lucifer.”

That caught his attention more than the straightening of papers and the squeak of a chair. 

“Oh?” Azazel straightened up immediately. “Who found him?”

Josie Sands shrugged. “Don't know. Don't care. And before you ask, no. I don't know where he is.”

The chains on the man's wrists clinked together as he stroke his chin, a knowing smirk on his face. “So that's why you've been on edge this entire meeting.” A dark chuckle followed. “You're scared.”

“I am not scared,” the redhead insisted. “But this makes my job way more difficult now. If your piece of shit brother had just caught him first—”

Azazel clicked his tongue. “Josie, my dear Abaddon…”

“Don't you dare 'Abaddon’ me, Azazel. Your freedom rests on Lucifer, and you know this. How can you act so blase about it all?!”

He laughed, and Josie curled her red lip.

“I'm your attorney only because you threatened me. No one else will want to help you as much as I want to, nor would they want to help you for zero fucking dollars, so how can you possibly laugh at this?”

“Josie,  _ Abaddon, _ I find this heavily in my favor. It will force you to make sure you do a great job and ensure my freedom. Failure to do so will result in the loss of your freedom…”

“And if I don't help you at all, if I call it quits, you'll rat me out anyways! I'm cornered!”

“Scared.”

“ _ Pissed. _ ”

Azazel leaned close and grinned, his yellow eyes glowing with insidious delight. “Then find Lucifer. Incapacitate him. Make sure he won't be available to go to trial, so he doesn't scream and tell the jury how you used his little seventeen-year old self for your own depraved pleasure~—ow! You bitch—”

Josie's red manicure dug into the flesh of Azazel's scalp; she snarled. “If you try to boss me around again, demon, you won't even make it to your trial.” Her snarl turned into a self-satisfied smirk, but her eyes remained cold and dark. “This is your brother's fault. Have him fix it. If he can't, well then...the only trial you'll face is the one before God.”

Azazel smiled his toothy grin and laughed. “Yes, my queen.”


	9. Brothers (Stealing Lovers)

“Alright,” Michael said, sitting down in front of Lucifer. His hair was damp, and he smelled like warm honey and cinnamon. The brunet shot him a gentle smile, the corners of his tired eyes crinkling, and Lucifer smiled back despite his nervous wrapping of his fingers around his coffee mug. Beside him, an empty plate, smeared with the remains of syrup and waffle crumbs. “We're going to discuss school like I promised, as well as a couple other things I've been meaning to bring up.”

Lucifer cocked his head to the side. “Other things? Good or bad?”

The older man shrugged. “Honestly, they could be either, but I'd like to think of them as good.” When Michael got no reply from Lucifer, he took that as a sign to continue. “I guess…first off, I want to say I'm sorry, for a couple nights ago.”

Oh. That took Lucifer by surprise. He blocked owlishly. “Er…what?”

Michael paused to slowly inhale, exhale. “I'm sorry for…for getting drunk, and…I'm sorry for not understanding why you were upset with me.” He paused again to stare at his hands.

“You already apologized for that, Michael.”

“I know, but…”

Lucifer was silent, simply watching his older brother, trying to decipher what was going on in his mind.

Time ticked on by, slow and daunting, seconds seemingly stretched to minutes, as the pair sat in silence, each attuned to their own thoughts. Maybe it was just because neither of them knew what to say.

It was too much for Lucifer, so it was he who broke the silence. “Michael, I already forgave you…”

“You were scared that I was going to be like him. That's unacceptable.”

Lucifer let out a single, humorless laugh. “You always wanted to be like him.”

Michael shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “No. No, I never wanted to be like Dad. I wanted to make him proud of me, yes, but…Luce, I never wanted to be like him. And I don't want you to fear me, or fear that I will be like him. I had a bad lapse in judgement; I was stressed, but I shouldn't have snapped at you and taken to drinking. I should've just talked to you, so…again, I apologize.”

“I…” Lucifer don't know how to respond this time. He wanted to accept the apology, but a part of him was still doubtful; he couldn't be sure that this wouldn't happen again, and that scared him. So, he licked his lips and changed course. “You were stressed?”

Michael ran a hand through his hair, finger combing it back. “Yeah. Uh…bad day at work. And I suppose I was too afraid to bring it up to you.” He dropped his hand to the table and struggled to find the right combination of words. After another long pause, he continued with caution. “Azazel was brought in for questioning, and he apparently asked for me.”

He glanced at Lucifer, and was immensely relieved to find a look of understanding painted on his features. Michael breathed a sigh of relief.

“Without going into too much detail, we didn't get a whole lot of information out of him, but he managed to get under my skin and provoke me to anger and disgust. After the interrogation, I had the unpleasant experience of meeting his attorney. I was already irritated by this point, and—I know she is supposed to believe her client is not guilty, but—she placed the blame of his depravity on his victims, and that disgusted me.

“I snapped, and my boss was not happy with that. And I was so stressed at that point, I…I told him that you were living with me. Not just…living with me. I told him everything, that you're my brother, and I wanted you to stay.”

Lucifer tensed up, suddenly understanding why Michael had been so stressed. Was he going to be taken away from him?

“He was surprisingly fine with all of this, but he…he wants you to testify against Azazel and Lilith. He said if you do testify, he'll get you into a drug rehab facility, free of charge. Same deal he gave Meg.”

“Michael,” Lucifer spoke, nervous, “I…I don't care about the rehab—”

“Luce, I—what?”

“I don't want to testify.”

Michael feared that. “Why? Is it because of what they did to you?”

Lucifer shook his head. “What if he escapes prison? He'd kill me, if Alistair didn't get to me first for imprisoning Lilith.”

“I wouldn't let that happen,” Michael said sharply. “If there was any sort of threat of that happening, we'd move immediately. I'd protect you; I wouldn't allow anything bad to happen to you. “

“Michael, you don't understand their power—”

“And you don't understand how much I will give up to make sure you never get hurt again. I…God, I don’t know how many times I have to say that for you to get it.” Michael's features softened. “Look, if you are that scared, we can get you into witness protection. I'll make sure you are safe.”

“Why does it matter if I testify or not?”

“Rehab would be really good for you, Lucifer. You're doing fine now, but…rehab can give you so many tools for life.”

“Michael…”

“Just think on it, okay? Weigh the pros and cons, and then get back to me. I hope you'll say yes, but I won't be mad if you say no.” He offered Lucifer a smile, and reached across the table to grab his hand and give it a squeeze. “How about some levity, and a change of subject? This morning has been tense.”

The blond nodded, shoulders relaxing and a small smile gracing his pale features.

“School?”

Lucifer's smile grew brighter, and he sat up a bit more. “Yes, I want to get my diploma, and go to college. I…you're right. I'm in control of who I am, yeah? So I don't want to be a whore.”

Michael laced his fingers with the younger man's. “What do you want to be?”

“A scientist, though I'm not sure what kind yet,” he said honestly.

“A scientist? I think that's wonderful, Lucifer.”

That smile only grew. “I'm leaning more towards natural science—biological. I think I'd like to work with plants, or animals. Perhaps even bioengineering.”

“Yeah?” Michael felt his own mood lift, seeing his brother excited about these prospects. “You were always incredibly intelligent, Luce. I'm sure you can do any of that.”

“I'll have to get my diploma, and get a job so I can go to college—”

“We'll look into scholarships for you too, so you're not _too_ stressed about tuition.”

Lucifer looked hopeful for once. Michael felt his heart flutter. “Do you really think I can do this?”

He gave Lucifer's hand a squeeze. “I know you can.”

 

* * *

 

It had been ten days since the arrest of the Masters. Ten days since Michael found Lucifer and took him in. Nine days since he took his brother shopping for a nicer wardrobe, eight days since his interrogation with Azazel and eight days since he last drank whiskey. Seven days since Lucifer's last bad withdrawal, it had been six days since Lucifer stated his intent to go to college. Six days since Michael had impure thoughts. Five days since Michael bought Lucifer a new phone and got rid of his old one (this was triggered by multiple phone calls from **$ Tall Dark Handsome $** within the course of minutes, followed by a vaguely threatening text). Four days since Lucifer started studying again, and three days marked a week of him being back in Michael's life. Lucifer gained seven and a half pounds, and Michael was thrilled. It had been two more days of studying—both his own work, and helping Lucifer with his—and school and work, and then it was January 19th, 2008.

It was 7:51am on a Saturday, and the wind outside the apartment was howling, crescendos and decrescendos of gusts that picked powdery snow up off the ground and swirled the flakes in the air. The windows were frosted over with delicate ice crystals, painting an intricate masterpiece of nature’s doing, and indicating the inhospitality of the outside world.

7:52am. Inside, it was warm and homey and inviting. High school and college textbooks were laid out unattended on the dining room table across from the other, pencils and erasers and notebooks and a lone calculator punctuating the makeshift scholar’s study. The only light in the home came from the kitchen, wherein from the oven wafted the intoxicating scent of sticky cinnamon sugar and vanilla.

Michael hovered by the stove top, eyes tired but content behind a pair of brown reading glasses. A well-loved and worn bathrobe hung from his frame, the belt having once again untied itself; flannel pyjama bottoms adorned his lower half, and a simple cotton t-shirt was his pyjama top. He smiled to himself as he stirred the saucepan full of cream cheese icing, hoping that this recipe wouldn’t let him down, and that it would indeed taste delicious. If the scent was any indicator, he had this one in the bag.

It wasn’t long before the oven chimed. The brunet immediately slipped on a pair of oven mitts and pulled the baking dish of cinnamon rolls from the oven. He set them on a hot pad on the counter, closed the oven and shut it off, and turned the flame of the stove off. He gave the icing a few more stirs, then poured half over top the steaming pastry, letting it soak in. Michael decided to save the rest for topping.

It was January 19th, 2008. It had been 18 years since Michael was four, and he laid eyes on his baby brother for the very first time. The memory was stark in his mind, clear as day; he could remember his mother lying in bed, exhaustion on her fair features, but beaming and positively glowing. Her long, blonde hair was pulled up into a bun off her sweaty neck, her hospital gown gently pushed off her shoulders so that she could hold a tiny, crying baby to her skin. His father was swelling with love, his hand on Michael’s shoulder giving him a squeeze. “You have a baby brother, Michael,” he said, voice an octave higher but whispered. Chuck grinned at Becky, and as they locked eyes, Michael took another step toward the bed and put his tiny hands on the mattress. Up on his tippy-toes he went, trying to peek over his mother’s protecting arms; she noticed, and gently ushered Michael to sit down. The moment he did, his father took the baby from her, and carefully, delicately carried him over to Michael’s waiting arms. “Be very careful, Michael. You have to protect him, make sure you don’t drop him.”

“I won’t,” Michael assured, green eyes bright and eager.  
Chuck then nodded, handing the baby Lucifer to his older brother, and Michael, upon holding him in his arms and seeing him for the first time, felt his chest swell with an insurmountable amount of love.   
Lucifer was tiny and fragile and crying, but those cries subsided into little hiccups upon being held in Michael’s embrace. Becky placed her hands over her mouth, the corners of her blue eyes crinkling with the force of her smile. “My dear Lucifer, you know that’s your brother, don’t you?”

“He sure does,” said his father, just barely holding back tears.

“He stopped crying, darling!”

“He knows he’s safe. Michael will love him and protect him, and he knows that.”

And Michael? Michael couldn’t tear his eyes away from his baby brother, red-faced with a shock of soft, fine blond hair on top of his head. A tiny arm and leg flailed, and Michael hugged him closer and kissed his head; his eyes squinted open, a gurgled coo bubbling forth from his chest.

“I love you too, Lucifer,” Michael said innocently. “Forever, and ever, and ever. I love you so much.”

January 19th. The day Michael's life changed forever and, unbeknownst to him, the day the missing piece of his heart was found. Even now, he was still unaware of just how monumental the impact of Lucifer had on him, and so…he shrugged off his fretting over breakfast to very simply being 'a celebration of Lucifer's birthday,’ rather than a labor of love.

It was while he was brewing coffee that the blond sleepily shuffled out of his bedroom, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. “Something smells really good,” he mumbled.

Michael smiled, and put a hand on the small of Lucifer's back to direct him to a chair. “That something is breakfast for the birthday boy. Coffee?”

Lucifer made a small noise of affirmation. “Whose birthday?”

“...Yours, kiddo.”

Lucifer blinked slowly, and Michael watched intently as the steady ebb of realization spread over his brother's face. “It...it is my birthday, isn't it?”

The brunet smiled and nodded, filling a mug halfway with coffee, and topping it off with creamer. “Happy 18th, Luce. How much sugar do you take again?”

Lucifer blinked again. “Four spoons.”

“Ah, that's right. Too much.”

The younger man laughed. “Not too much! Just enough to make the coffee palatable.”

“Says the one who thinks spaghetti and meatballs is exquisite cuisine.”

“Hey, don't knock spaghetti!”

Michael chuckled as he placed the mug in front of Lucifer. He gave the blond's hair a quick ruffle before promptly returning to the kitchen; the cinnamon rolls were cooled down enough to top off with the rest of the cream cheese frosting without it turning too liquidy. They were going to be perfectly ooey-gooey, warm, with a fantastically melting center. Michael daresay he felt a swell of pride; these would surely be Martha Stewart approved. He plated two, then returned to his brother, sitting next to him rather than across from him.

“Micha, this smells fantastic,” Lucifer said, his words punctuated by a long gurgle of his stomach. He blushed at that, but otherwise licked his lips and proceeded to ravenously dig in.

There was that swell of pride again. “I hope they taste as good as they smell! I haven't baked in a long while.”

Lucifer merely hummed, too busy stuffing his face.

Had it been anyone else, Michael would've been disgusted by the lack of table manners and the messy and unsophisticated way Lucifer was eating. But it wasn't anyone else; it _was_ Lucifer and though it had been 10 days since he started living with Michael, he was still dangerously underweight and malnourished and God damn it, he deserved to eat as much as he wanted, however he wanted. Michael certainly wasn't about to tell him to eat in a more civilized manner when he was just happy Lucifer was eating at all.

It was only when the blond was halfway done with the second roll that Michael spoke up again. “So, birthday boy, what do you want to do today?”

Lucifer paused mid-chew to stare owlishly at the older man, processing the question. Once registered, he swallowed his bite and slowly sucked the icing off his fingers. Michael's gaze immediately dropped to Lucifer's mouth, mesmerized by those wet, pink lips wrapped around his sticky digits. He shifted uncomfortably and averted his eyes, trying his best to act nonchalant about the innocently lewd act.

He heard the pop of suction being lost, followed by “What do I want to do today?”

“Yeah,” Michael said, steeling himself. “We can do whatever you want.”

A beat of silence. And then, “I…don’t know. I don't normally do anything on my birthday. It's just…any other day. Azazel would just normally give me an extra stamp, then he would have me 'go to work.’”

“That's not how I do birthdays, Luce,” Michael said sternly. Of course, he was mostly lying. Minus the drugs, Michael would still go to work on his birthday. But Lucifer didn't need to know that. It was different. Lucifer deserved to be celebrated. “It's my present to you, then. If you could do anything today, what would you do?”

There was a flicker of childlike excitement flashing across Lucifer's pale features. Michael was grateful he didn't blink at all, otherwise he would've missed it; the blond composed himself and tried to act nonchalant and uninterested in his answer. “I guess I'd enjoy going to the Shedd Aquarium.”

Michael remembered their conversation from a couple days ago:

_“What do you want to be?”_

_“A scientist, though I'm not sure what kind,” he said honestly._

_“A scientist? I think that's wonderful, Lucifer.”_

_“I'm leaning more towards natural science—biological. I think I'd like to work with plants, or animals. Perhaps even bioengineering.”_

He smiled widely. “The aquarium? I shall make it so.”

And there it was; Lucifer's dazzling smile, his radiant, beaming white teeth flashed his way. Michael felt his heart stuttering beneath his ribs, falling even further under the blond's spell. He couldn't even deny it anymore, how he wanted to just kiss the life out of him—not that Lucifer needed to know that—Michael just had to be content with never acting upon his urges.

But once again, as it so often happened when he saw just how brilliantly Lucifer shined, Michael was left wondering just how anyone could bring it within themselves to dim that light, to snuff it out. He certainly was not innocent himself; after all, he had done next to nothing as a teenager when Lucifer fell into a depression. But he was not a monster, not like Azazel, or Alistair, or Lilith. _They_ should've been slaves to Lucifer, not the other way around.

He shook the thoughts from his head before he got too deep. “Go shower, Luce. I'll clean up, take a quick shower myself, and then we can head out. Sound good?”

Lucifer nodded, stood up quickly, and practically skipped to the bathroom. Michael smiled after him, only allowing his smile to fall when the door shut behind him.

He just didn’t understand. He knew it was wrong to be attracted to Lucifer; hell, it didn’t matter if Lucifer was his same age. They were _brothers,_ for fuck’s sake, and yet…

Every single smile Lucifer flashed his way sent him reeling, his stomach doing flip-flops like he was a stupid, love-sick teenage boy again (Again? Michael couldn’t recall ever feeling this way about anyone). He supposed…maybe…perhaps he’d feel the same if someone equally as attractive as Lucifer showed him any modicum of friendliness. Michael, stoic and professional as he may be, certainly had a weakness for the beautiful people. He supposed that was the reason why he took so much careful pride in his appearance…right? Beautiful people would be more attracted to beautiful people.

(He wondered if Lucifer thought he was attractive, but he quickly waved that thought from his mind.)

It was wrong. His…his attraction to Lucifer was wrong. No matter which way he bent it, nothing absolved Michael of any guilt. Lucifer might be a faunlet, coy and oozing sex appeal, but that didn’t fucking excuse anything. Hell, the blond could waltz right back into the dining room, stark naked and making bedroom eyes, and that _still_ wouldn’t excuse Michael’s attraction.

He groaned, rubbed his hands over his face, and could feel himself heating up. _You_ really _need to get laid,_ he found himself thinking. It was really the only explanation for these…these sick feelings. He hadn’t had sex—or even made out—with anyone in ages. He just needed to get his libido in check, and all would be fine. It would all be fine.

Michael had barely finished cleaning up his mess when Lucifer came strolling out, freshened up and looking presentable. He wore the same gray sweater from a few days ago, cleaned, but sported a pair of light-wash jeans that, in all honesty, did wonders for his legs. Michael’s lip twitched, and he turned back to the fridge to hang the dish towel to dry.

“Shower’s free,” Lucifer chirped, beelining for his textbooks. “I’m gonna do a bit of light studying while I wait.”

“Cool,” Michael said dumbly. _Cool? Really? Converse like a normal human being, Michael._ “I uh, won’t be long.”

Lucifer waved his hand dismissively, already settled into his chair and reading through his Calculus II text. Michael stared—just for a second—then quickly turned on his heel, making his way to the bathroom with diligence.

The smell of Lucifer’ shampoo still lingered in the shower; it was crisp and airy and cold, the smell of the ocean. Michael closed his eyes and breathed in.

He was on a drifting piece of ice and snow, the waves gently rocking. The sun filtered through white, fluffy clouds and pierced through his eyelids. Frozen fingers skirted along his hand, sending shivers up his spine and causing his skin to break out into gooseflesh. He caught those fingers with his own, hooking onto them, keeping them still. He didn’t want them to leave.

Michael took a cold shower.

 

* * *

 

It was 6:47pm. He was exhausted, but so immensely satisfied, he didn't care. Lucifer was radiant, full of life and energy, beaming and buzzing with excitement as they entered their home after a long day's outing. He was babbling about all the different fish they saw, going into detail about what made each special, and all Michael could think was how he could go into detail about how special Lucifer was. He had been like a kid in a candy shop, a huge smile on his face the entire time, wonderment and awe lighting him up from the inside out.

Lucifer deposited his souvenir tiger shark plush on the couch and continued to babble on. “—garbage eater. They'll eat _anything_ , even tires and pop cans, because they're literally garbage. I love them so much, they see polluted oceans and they are just like, 'I don't give a fuck, I'll eat that and I'll eat you too!’ Tiger sharks are the heroes humanity needs but doesn't deserve—”

Michael smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. It was so refreshing, seeing Lucifer like this. Seeing him as how he was meant to be.

“How do you know all this?”

“Shark Week. Duh!”

Michael rolled his eyes at the childish outburst, but didn't otherwise reprimand Lucifer for it.

They were both startled by a knock on the door, but after a moment's pause, Michael went to open it; Sam and Dean were standing there, smiling.

“Heard it was someone's birthday today!” the taller of the brothers said.

“Sam!” Lucifer shot up from the couch and practically ran to the door, crushing Sam in a great, big hug.

The brunet laughed, returning the hug with one arm. “Hey, Luce. You're looking well.”

The corner of Michael's mouth twitched, but he forced a smile to his lips. “Dean, Sam. Good to see you. Please, come in. We just got home from a birthday outing.”

“Oh yeah?” Sam said, showing polite interest. “Tell me about it!”

“Michael and I went to the Shedd Aquarium—” Lucifer started, practically dragging Sam to the couch.

“Poor sap,” Dean said, snorting. “Sam's gonna get his ear talked off, isn't he?”

Michael let out a single laugh. “Yeah, my Luce had a pretty good day, I'd say. It's good to see you, Dean. How have you been?”

The shorter man shrugged, depositing a case of beer and a gift bag on the kitchen counter. “Tired, sore. But hey, that's work, right? At least there's no construction this time of year. Want one?” Dean offered a beer, which Michael declined.

“The garage is doing well, though?”

“Oh yeah, lots of car accidents. I'm kept busy,” he said, walking to the couch to join the others. “So you're Lucifer!” Dean flashed the blond a winning smile, and Sam instantly went on the defense.

“ _Dean,_ ” warned Sam.

“Yep, that's me. I'm Dean, nice to finally meet you, Lucifer.” He extended a hand.

“Hi,” Lucifer said innocently, taking the older man's hand.

“Sammy, I gotta say, your boyfriend's a looker.”

Sam and Michael both turned a bright red.

“Dean, shut up!” Sam said, simultaneous with Michael's “Excuse me?!”

“I'm—” the youngest brunet sputtered. “Dean, I told you to behave.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean couldn't keep a straight face. “It's my job, Sammy. Gotta embarrass my dork brother in front of his crush!”

“ _Dean._ ”

“Oh come on! You don't shut up about the kid, you totally have a thing for him.”

“I met him _once._ ”

“Yeah, and you came to his rescue in that encounter! Ain't that right, Luce?”

“My knight in shining armor,” the blond replied, batting his eyelashes.

Dean blinked and pointed at Lucifer with his beer. “I like him,” he said, voice deadpan.

Lucifer laughed, and Sam only blushed further.

Michael didn't think it was very funny at all. Rather, he felt a sort of jealousy rising in his chest. “Dean, let's not tease anyone. Lucifer, don't encourage him.”

“Yes sir,” both Dean and Lucifer replied after the reprimand.

Michael sighed, then forced another smile to his face. “It was very nice of you two to come over.” It was a forced attempt to change the subject, but it worked…kind of.

Sam laughed nervously. “Well, it was…we just wanted to see how y'all were doing. And it's nice to celebrate birthdays with friends.”

“Yeah, well, Sammy wanted to see Luce again, and I wanted to see the guy he was smitten with—” Michael and Sam both gave Dean a warning glance. “—uh, he was smitten with getting to know! We brought presents!”

Lucifer finally blushed. “Presents? You…you really didn't have to,” he protested.

“Of course we did! It's your birthday!”

“It's not anything big, but,” Sam started to explain, while Dean grabbed the gift bag. “It's something.”

“Thank you…really,” Lucifer said quietly. “I don't know what else to say…”

He took the gift and glanced up at the trio for a moment, before delving in and pulling out the colorful tissue paper. Inside the bag was a small box and a card. Lucifer opened the card first, silently reading it. He blinked rapidly, then started up at Sam, mouth agape. “Really? Are you sure?”

Sam smiled. “Of course!”

“Thank you!”

“What's it say?” Michael asked, gently plucking the card from Lucifer's hands.

 _Happy 18th Birthday!_ The front of the card read. Inside, _Hope it's a good one!_ and in Sam’s messy scrawl, _I heard you were going back to school. If it would please you, I'd be more than happy to help tutor you. -Sam_

Michael blinked, once again feeling a twinge of jealousy. “Oh, Sam, that's very kind of you.”

Sam waved his hand. “No, it's…I owe you. For helping me. So, let me help Luce in return.”

Lucifer, for what it was worth, appeared to be lost for words, and he was looking at Sam like he was a treasure. Michael hated it. Was his own tutelage not enough? What made Sam so special? But Sam simply smiled that warm smile at Lucifer, and the blond leaned in closer to the brunet. Michael cleared his throat. “What's in the box?”

“It's from me,” Dean said, grinning. “I promise it ain't a dick, either.”

Sam looked rightfully annoyed. At least he wasn't making eyes at his Luce anymore, Michael noted with annoyed relief.

There youngest of the group just laughed and opened the box, revealing a lottery ticket. Dean winked. “If you hit the jackpot, be sure to share with me!”

“I'll repay you the five dollars it cost you to purchase,” Lucifer teased in return. “Then I'll blow the rest on drugs and strippers.”

“Lucifer!”

“…Kidding,” Lucifer said, feeling a little sheepish.

Michael wasn't having it. “No, you don't joke about that.”

“I'm…I’m sorry,” he replied, his earlier happiness quickly draining away. Shit.

Michael ran a hand over his face. The last thing Michael wanted to do today was make Lucifer unhappy. Hell, he did everything in his power to give him the best day ever, and here he was, blowing it, all because of some stupid jokes and playful banter. Why?

He was on edge. Ever since the Winchesters came over, and… _why?_ He liked the Winchesters; they were good people, and he had no reason to wish their presence gone, except for…except for the fact that Sam seemed to receive so much more gratitude from Lucifer for doing the same things for him that Michael had been doing. It was unfair, and Michael felt like he had been pushed to the side.

But he should be happy! Right? Sam, after all, was a good kid, and if Lucifer had a crush on him, all the better, right? Michael could be confident knowing that Lucifer was in a relationship with someone who was as good as Sam. And likewise, he knew Sam was the kind of soul that would never harm Lucifer. He knew that his brother would be in good hands. So, why was he so upset?

The hug. The coy smile. The open flirting. Michael was jealous of Sam; he wished he _was_ Sam. And that negative feeling—that _sinful,_ wretched feeling—was causing him to be on edge, to lash out. He needed…he needed to keep his cool.

“No. I'm sorry. I need to relax a bit more,” Michael finally said. “You were just making a joke; I know you wouldn't actually go out and buy drugs. I trust you more than that.”

Lucifer smiled a bit then, shoulders easing as the tension in the air dissipated.

“Maybe we should go,” Dean said, starting to stand. “Wouldn't want to overstay our welcome.”

“No, please stay,” Michael offered, grabbing the case of beer from the counter, and bringing it over to the coffee table. “I insist.”

And so they did; the next few hours were filled with a more lighthearted air—Dean drinking more than half the beers while Sam downed two himself. Lucifer refrained from any, and Michael asked silent permission from his brother to have just one. He nursed it throughout the night, careful sips here and there, making sure to keep his temper in check. There was laughter after all, and he didn't want to imbibe too much too fast and ruin the levity. Lucifer mostly talked about the aquarium, and Dean regaled stories of Sam when he was a youth, effortlessly embarrassing his younger brother. Sam clapped back with some rather interesting revelations of Dean himself, making the older Winchester turn as pink as the satin panties he supposedly wore when he was seventeen. Michael didn't contribute much to the conversation, more inclined to just listen to everyone else and watch Dean flail his arms around like a maniac as he told his stories. Lucifer laughed appropriately, subtly shifting his posture so that his legs were draped over Sam's thighs; if Sam noticed, he either didn't care, or played along. One large hand settled on Lucifer's knee, and gave the occasional squeeze when they laughed.

(Michael took a larger sip of his beer whenever he saw that.)

Eventually, after the night dragged on into the late hours, Dean stood and proclaimed with slurred speech that he had work in the morning, and that he needed to go to bed. Sam agreed, insisting that it was time to go home, and gently folded Lucifer's legs off his own and stood. Lucifer got to his feet.

“I'll see you out, then,” he said, stifling a yawn, as he followed the brothers to the door. Michael watched as they greeted each other their goodbyes, Lucifer thanking them with friendly hugs.

“Shall I see you tomorrow, then?” Sam asked. “I can help you with your studies once I'm done with class.”

“I'd love that,” Lucifer replied, smiling brightly. Michael felt a thorn stab his heart. “Hey, Sam?”

“Yeah, Luce?”

Lucifer hesitated for a moment, but his smile widened. “You're really great.”

And then he stood on his tippy-toes, grabbed the lapels of Sam's jacket, and kissed his cheek.

Michael hated Sam.


End file.
